


1912

by RobinRocks



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Angst, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Titanic - Freeform, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-30
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-06 07:57:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 40,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/416546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinRocks/pseuds/RobinRocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>USUK. Cynical, overweight and bored in the dull twilight of his empire, Arthur finds distraction in the form of rekindling his relationship with Alfred on board the Titanic during her doomed maiden voyage. For Titanic's one hundredth anniversary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tuesday April 9th, 1912

Before we begin, I would just like come right out and say that this is NOT a _Hetalia-_ retelling of James Cameron's 1997 blockbuster _Titanic_ , so please don't be disappointed if that's what you were expecting. That has been done several times already in this fandom - I mean, really, I do see the appeal, particularly with USUK, given that Jack is American and Rose is English, but I didn't want to go down that route myself with this. Instead this is a canon-verse story in which England/Arthur and America/Alfred are on the _Titanic_ during her ill-fated maiden voyage. I thought this might be an interesting way to go since the ship was travelling from Southampton, England to New York, USA, carrying the cream of British and American high society; with, of course, the intriguing factor that nations are often regarded in fan works to be immortal (the approach taken here).

This fic follows what I have oh-so-cleverly dubbed a "Real Time release schedule", meaning that starting today, this will be updated daily until the date of the sinking, with the dates coinciding exactly one hundred years to the day. It's actually unfortunate that the days of the week the dates fall on are a day out (we're a day behind in 2012 - so close to being exact!) but I suppose a century of leap years will do that, right?

So, without further ado, here we go!

Edit: Given that this is an imported version from FFNet, this is obviously no longer a "live" event. :3

Tuesday 9th April, 1912

Whenever the people of Great Britain wanted to impress their national embodiment (one Arthur Kirkland, who had once been a privateer - not a pirate, thank you very much), they went straight for his weak point:

They gave him a ship as a present.

Warships, to be precise, for they were very much a country of war and he did so revel in the spark of battle, their Arthur Kirkland - and none so much as the crash of combat upon tossing seas. It was an easy way of curbing his boredom and sweetening his disposition, making a show of putting a blindfold on him and leading him to the dry dock to show off the newest Hell-hearted monstrosity built in his name.

He recalled three very vividly, two because they had been revolutionary and one because it had saved him from France. This latter was, in fact, the earliest of the three - and the latest in a long line of ships named _HMS Victory_.

She had been launched in 1765, first-rate and full-rigged with a copper-plated hull and over one hundred gleaming bronze cannons. He had liked her well enough, perhaps not as much as some of Drake's ships - but she had been Admiral Nelson's flagship at Trafalgar, he had died upon her deck and she had carried him home afterwards. Arthur, meanwhile, had been in her rigging with a first-class view when she sank Francis' _Redoutable._ She had been his favourite after all that.

The second had been _HMS Warrior_ , launched in 1860. Stepping down from the carriage, steered by admirals in his velvet blindfold, he had blithely listened their excited chatter as he trotted alongside them towards this bright new creature. With the blindfold removed, he had actually pressed his palms together in childish glee upon seeing her. She had been iron-clad - the first iron-clad in the Royal Navy's fleet, in fact, though France had had the idea first - and her belly filled with machinery (two hundred and forty tonnes, to be exact). Fitted with a tweaked Armstrong gun which could propel shells over two and half miles (making her tremble delightfully underfoot), her steel walls had themselves been impregnable by any other weapon of the time. The fact alone that she had been one and half times larger than Francis' _La Gloire_ had made Arthur fall in love with her - though the tragic fact was that, being the most powerful ship in the world, her creation had triggered an arms race which ousted her a mere ten years later. Whenever he was in Portsmouth, Arthur always made a point of going to visit her all the same; the old girl was like a beloved aunt.

The third had been a beast called _HMS Dreadnought_. She was still in use - in fact, she hadn't really seen any action as of yet, first off the production line in 1906 and with many following in the years creeping after. Named for another _Dreadnought_ (Elizabeth's against the Spanish Armada), this hulking leviathan boasted over five thousand tonnes of armour and a crown composed of firsts: a uniform battery of ten guns and steam-powered engines. She was the fastest and most powerful ship ever made, rendering every other the world over utterly obsolete.

By that point, of course, they'd made no pretence about no longer allowing Arthur aboard warships. It had been years since he had last seen battle, carrying Victoria's colours upon his chest in the humid crush of India. She had been easier with him, letting him choose his adventures; he came back with his pockets full of glory and she adored him, that was their agreement. Since her death, however, he had been branded a more precious commodity than a treasure-seeker (not that they considered there was much more treasure left to seek). With Edward it had been much more of a stay-at-home empire and Arthur (if not a diplomat) then certainly some sort of housekeeper, kept to carefully dust their spoils. He'd never had much of a head for business, though; nor for commercialism. He was a thief, a trailblazer, a soldier.

Setting ships to sail just for the hell of it (with ballrooms and chandeliers and croquet courts) baffled him; and needless to say, when they proudly presented him with the _RMS Titanic_ , he wasn't remotely impressed.

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Didn't you say Alfred was going to be here?" Arthur asked irritably, batting the officer's hand away; he pulled the plate back towards himself, taking up the knife again.

The scones were the most interesting thing in the room and he wasn't about to be cheated out of them.

The officer frowned at his hand.

"Not tonight," he replied, deeming to withdraw it. "He is completing the final leg of his journey from London with his party this evening. He will join us in Southampton for the boarding tomorrow."

Arthur coughed out a sigh, making an architectural masterpiece of the precisely-balanced mountain of clotted cream and jam on his half-scone. Some spilled over provocatively onto his thumb, which he licked clean in a swift and merciless manner.

The officer, a naval man in his mid-thirties called Sherman, cleared his throat and folded his arms on the tabletop. Arthur did not spare him a glance, taking a bite out of his scone and letting his eyes run over the huge blueprints of the _Titanic_ once more before looking at the clock. They had been here all evening, the White Star top brass putting on a bit of a show for him, as was the way of these things. He had seen the ship afloat at her mooring in the drawstring dusk of Southampton Harbour, all of her lights on and her staff swarming on her decks as she was prepared for her maiden voyage. He hadn't been dreadfully enamoured of her, of course, and they had blustered and been apologetic, saying that she wasn't quite catching the light, he would change his mind when he boarded her tomorrow and they set off for New York. He and his companion, Captain Sherman, had then been ushered into the lavish White Star offices for a thorough run-down of everything that was new and wonderful and innovative about the _Titanic_ and her two sisters (accompanied, of course, by a generous fix of high tea - iced cakes and little triangle cucumber sandwiches and cream éclairs and the aforementioned scones served with sweet smoky gunpowder tea shipped straight from China).

"You'll have a parlour suite, of course," one of the top-brassers said briskly; he had been talking the entire time but Arthur had well and truly zoned him out at this point. "One of the very best. Serving staff, too. Anything you want, really - just snap your fingers, Mr Kirkland."

"I'm well aware." Arthur took another bite, chewing thoughtfully for a moment. "…It's Major General, actually."

The top-brasser blinked, his hand faltering on his own teacup.

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's Major General Kirkland," Arthur repeated blithely. "Or Commodore - actually, yes, Commodore would be more appropriate. I'm not Mr - I've been around much too long for that."

"I apologise." The top-brasser looked embarrassed. "You'll forgive my impertinence."

"Of course." Arthur glanced sidelong at Captain Sherman, disappointed when he didn't get much of a reaction. "Naturally, I too am being rather obtuse. That's about right, isn't it, Sherman, old boy?"

Sherman sighed.

"A little bit," he muttered.

He wouldn't meet Arthur's gaze, which Arthur took as a childish victory as he reached for the other half of his scone.

"Is Alfred having a suite?" he went on; he tapped the plans with the blunt end of his jam knife.

"No, he didn't want one," another of the top-brassers said crisply, reaching out and inching the plans away. "He's just having a single room - second-class, I believe."

"These Americans," laughed a third. "They're such simple people. I rather think Alfred Jones would be happy sleeping in a crate."

"Yes, he probably would be - with a newspaper for a blanket, I shouldn't wonder." Arthur leaned back in his seat, munching the rest of his scone. "Well, this has been lovely - however, I'm sorry to say that I don't have any questions, gentlemen."

The first top-brasser wilted a bit.

"None at all?" he asked weakly.

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"I've already been through all this once before," he said, "when _RMS Olympic_ was launched last year. _Titanic_ is virtually identical to her, is she not?"

"Not quite, sir, there are a few design changes, betterments, if you will; _Titanic_ is the more luxurious by far and we have improved upon some flaws which alighted themselves through trial and error with _Olympic_."

"Yes." Arthur frowned. "Yes, I had heard that _Olympic_ has been almost more trouble than she's worth…"

"That's why Mr Andrews has worked so hard upon improving his design for _Titanic_ ," the top brasser said firmly. "Well, we have explained everything to you down to the finest of details - quite simply, sir, there is no better ship in the world than _Titanic_ -"

" _Dreadnought_ ," Arthur said lightly.

"No better luxury liner, to be precise," amended the second man.

"I don't like luxury liners." Arthur's tone was petulant. "I like warships. Luxury liners are a waste of good sea space."

"W-well, be that as it may, she is nonetheless the largest and most elaborately-furnished ever built and has been designed with state-of-the-art technology. Why, the newspapers have been calling her 'practically unsinkable by God himself'. She is a masterpiece, truly she is."

"And be that as it may," Arthur said gently, "I cannot rouse my interest much more than inquiring what is on her lunch menu tomorrow." His eyes gleamed curiously at this admission.

"A-ah, well, that is, sir…" The first top-brasser cleared his throat. "You will of course have the option of devising your own menus. I was informed months ago that that is one of your requirements."

"It's a perk, certainly." Arthur shrugged. "Well done, you've passed one test, at the very least."

Sherman cleared his throat again.

"You're not being very nice, Commodore," he said in a low voice. "After the gentlemen went to such effort for you, too."

"Oh, don't be a bore, Sherman," Arthur replied gloomily; he picked up the last sandwich from the tray and took a dainty bite of it. "And don't tattle to His Majesty or I'll have your head."

"Have you really no questions at all?" the third top-brasser pressed anxiously, heading Sherman off. "After all, we are deeply honoured that you accepted our invitation to sail on _Titanic_ for her maiden voyage, sir. She will make history tomorrow, you know - and we are very glad that our nation will be there to witness her glory."

"I accepted on the promise of dictating my own menus, a library full of first editions and Alfred F. Jones."

"Has it been that long, sir?"

"Eleven years. I haven't seen him since Victoria's funeral." Arthur gave a sour smile. "He's been so busy this past decade, inventing aeroplanes and the like, he hasn't had a moment to spare for me."

"We're very honoured by his acceptance, too," the second top-brasser said hurriedly, backtracking too late to renege the comment about Alfred's cheerfully-low standards. "To have you both on board-"

"Yes, yes." Arthur waved his hand dismissively and finished his sandwich. "Spare me - I daresay I'll hear enough of all that during the crossing." He pressed his hands together thoughtfully, looking over the blueprints again; giving them his fullest attention now that all the little offerings had been devoured, for he had no better distraction. "...Are they really calling it unsinkable?"

The top brass perked up at his inquiry, though it was barely coloured with any real interest.

"Practically unsinkable, I believe it was," the first of them said. "I have to say I'd be inclined to agree. She's designed, you see, to allow four of the bulkheads to fill completely with water and for her to remain afloat despite it."

"Yes, so you said," Arthur said absently. He sighed again. "The press knows nothing of sailing etiquette. They oughtn't tempt fate like that. I've seen some of the best ships in the navy be lost - the _Mary Rose_ is a fine example."

The second top-brasser scoffed.

" _Titanic_ is built upon those failures," he said. "Truly, leave God out of it - nothing on this earth could sink her."

"Ha." Arthur smirked, resting his chin on his hands. "I bet _Dreadnought_ could."

 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*Puts on hipster glasses* I've actually been to where _Titanic_ (and her sisters) were built; the Harland and Wolff shipyard in Belfast, Northern Ireland (where my parents are from~). The shipyard is out of use and has been for years, although the site is now home to the brand new Titanic Experience, built especially for the centenary. I get to go it in May, which is very exciting! :3 It wasn't there when I went back in 2003 - it was just a massive empty dry dock, which certainly gives you an idea of the sheer size _Titanic_ and _Olympic_ must have been! O.o Of course, you can find the exact size of _Titanic_ anywhere and all the movies/TV shows/etc do a great job of showing how big she was but I personally was never really able to get my head around the scale until I saw the dry dock. Seriously, modern cruise liners - much bigger than _Titanic_! - must be the size of small countries…

Unlike _RMS Titanic_ , which, to visit, requires all kinds of ridiculous technology only James Cameron seems to be able to afford, and _HMS Dreadnought_ , which was scrapped in 1923, you can still visit _HMS Victory_ and _HMS Warrior_ if you like! Both are fully restored museum ships berthed in Portsmouth, England. You can even hire out _Warrior_ for your wedding if you really want! Btw, I really should credit the wonderful Dan Snow (a presenter/historian for the BBC) for his very informative and interesting four-part series on the Royal Navy, _Empire of the Seas_ , which is where I got all my information on the battleships. Thanks, Dan! You're the best! :D

Probably some of these chapters will have a lot of boring notes like this, haha. It's just me rambling about pointless things, mostly, so feel free to ignore them. It's just that I do all this research for fics and then have to tell someone…

But yeah, I think we're off to a good start! Tomorrow, 10th April, is the day of the launch - and also the first chapter with Alfred in, yaaaaay. At least he's going to be more impressed with _Titanic_ than Arthur is…

(Lastly, a very interesting thought I stumbled on whilst brushing up on my _Titanic_ facts for this fic: Someone commented that _Titanic_ is still on her maiden voyage one hundred years later. I'd never thought about it like that but it's true! O.o)


	2. Wednesday April 10th, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alfred boards the _Titanic_ and Arthur eats. Like, a lot.

Wow! This has been really popular already! I wasn't expecting such a deluge so thank you all so very much! You all seem to have very high hopes for this fic so… I guess let's hope it doesn't go the same way as its subject? T.T

Also, I feel like I should mention this now in case it's triggery…? It's quite an important part of the story, as strange as it might seem given that this is pretty much a fic about the world's most famous sunken ship, but Arthur has symptoms of an eating disorder. It's not exactly a diagnosed disorder like anorexia or bulimia so much as it's a severe preoccupation with numbers, but… Yeah, I won't go into it too much up here, I would hope that the story itself explains it better, but I just want to put this up here now as a sort of fair warning.

Anyway! Today, of course, is the one hundredth anniversary of Titanic's maiden voyage - which is the theme of today's chapter, naturally! C:

Wednesday April 10th, 1912

The air at Southampton was crisp and sharp as Alfred stepped out of the car; he swung the door shut behind him a little more roughly than he ought to have, breathing in with a smile. It was good to be out of stuffy London, that was for sure - not to mention the string of poky little bed-and-breakfasts littering the long drive down, they and their damp beds both.

Stepping away from the car, he pushed up his glasses and cast his gaze skyward to get his first look at the _RMS Titanic._ She was utterly magnificent, gleaming and monstrous at her mooring: her unlit windows flashing like glossy beetles, her four orange funnels seeming to touch the clouds themselves. People seethed all about her, scampering to and fro with luggage and packages and crates, her staff like bright little sparks in their brand-new uniforms - hundreds upon hundreds of people mere specks on her colossal back. Alfred had never seen such a huge ship and was very impressed, his breath near abouts stolen when he looked up and just kept going.

"Beautiful, ain't she?" Stewart, a naval officer from Maine serving as one of Alfred's attendants, came around the car and nodded towards the ship. "I'll be pleased as punch to glide into New York on _her_. What a sight, huh?"

"She's amazing," Alfred agreed; he glanced at Stewart, who had both of their bags slung over his shoulder. "Oh, gee, sir, you don't have to carry that for me-"

Stewart waved him off.

"Come off it," he interrupted airily. "It's an honour - and it'll be an honour to sail with you, too, Mr Jones."

"Oh, well, I'm not much of a naval man," Alfred admitted with a smile. "Never have been - especially not now I have aviation to distract me."

Stewart gave a good-natured snort.

"Those boxes with wings!" he scoffed. "Naw, you still can't beat a ship, is my honest opinion - one look at _this_ magnificent creature could tell you that." He shook his head in admiration. "Those English toffs certainly know how to build 'em, I'll give 'em that."

"I heard the Irish built it, actually," Alfred corrected him politely. "In Belfast."

"Well," Stewart replied, "then leave it up to the English to take the goddamn credit." He thumbed at the name _Liverpool_ etched carefully, proudly, onto her skin. "And of course we're sailing from Southampton with nothing of Belfast in sight. Steerage is probably stuffed to the hilt with Irish, too. Bet there aren't many of 'em in First Class."

"Probably not."

Alfred was spared having to elucidate any further on the plight of the Irish, however, by another member of his entourage joining them at the car door; a low-ranking government official, a Mr Jameson, with Senate aspirations and a heavy smoking habit. He had his customary cigar in his mouth even now, carrying Alfred's briefcase for him.

"I have our tickets," he drawled. "Let's push on and board - I think we're cutting it a little close."

Alfred nodded, glancing over his shoulder at the car; the driver, a White House employee accompanying them too, gave them all a little salute and pulled off, the Ford bouncing over the cobbles in the direction of the hold.

"He's got his ticket," Jameson said crisply, "so don't worry about him. He'll meet us on deck. Let's go, fellas."

He and Stewart strode ahead, falling into easy conversation; Alfred dawdled behind with his hands in his pockets, not taking his eyes off the _Titanic_ as they drew closer and closer. Presently he had to crane his neck at a near-impossible angle to look up at her, so invested in worshipping her awe-inspiring presence that he almost tripped on the gangplank, saved swiftly by Stewart.

"Jeez, watch your step on the ship at least, won't you?" Stewart laughed, righting him as Alfred in turn righted his glasses. "I don't want to have to tell Mr Taft you fell overboard halfway to New York."

Alfred grinned his thanks, trotting up the gangplank after Jameson, who flashed their tickets. Stepping past him and onto the deck of the _Titanic_ , Alfred looked around, taking another breath of sharp sea air as he grinned. The deck was crowded, the rails all around cluttered with people leaning over waving to families and friends gathered on the dockside, hair and skirts and ribbons billowing. Rich ladies and gentlemen, the glittering top layer of Anglo-American high society, stalked the promenade with the grace of leopards, arm-in-arm and in magnificent hats, nannies and nurses clattering along after them with little girls and boys in their very best clothes. There were businessmen and muscians, writers and clergymen and entrepeneurs, the legions of the middling band of Second Class - and crowded between them all manner of nationalities filling in the Third Class tickets, Irish and English and Welsh and Scottish, Italian and French, Norwegian and Armenian and Polish and Swedish. Alfred could tell just by glancing sidelong at them that they were new-life-seekers, travelling to his promised land; they had it about them, an expression of mingled relief and utter exhaustion, sadness and hope and the likeliness that they had sold almost everything they owned to be able to afford even a Steerage ticket.

He smiled at a little girl in a ragged dress as she was hurried along by her mother; she looked back over her shoulder at him with big pale blue eyes, smiling shyly back at the last moment before she vanished into the crowd.

"Alfred!" Stewart clapped him on the shoulder, making him jump. "Come on over to the Port side, we've got seats with the British party for the launch. Half of the White Star head honchos are over there."

"Is Arthur there?" Alfred asked, turning to him. "He said in his last letter he was going to be sailing."

Stewart rolled his eyes.

"As if White Star would have a big fanfare launch like this and not chase their national representative onto it," he said drolly. "Yeah, he's over there. He doesn't look very happy, though - just a fair warning in case he bites your head off."

Alfred smirked.

"I can handle Arthur," he replied. "Trust me."

Stewart gave a nod and began to steer Alfred by the shoulder through the very thick of the to-and-fro crowd, Alfred looking up at the towering first funnel as they passed beneath it. It seemed to him almost as tall as any of the office buildings in New York or Boston, beginning to belch steam as the engines fired up far beneath their feet. He was still watching it - and the others falling into line like soldiers behind it - when they came to the small cluster of deck chairs and tables occupied by various Persons of Importance (to varying degrees), some smoking (Jameson had already lit up another) and others with a drink in hand, making pleasant small talk as they waited for the _Titanic_ to set sail. Alfred recognised Thomas Andrews, the ship's designer, and J. Bruce Ismay, White Star Line's brassiest of the Top Brass, from photographs; he was directed to shake hands with them, introduced as Alfred F. Jones, Official National Representative of the United States of America (and the like), and he nodded and smiled and thanked them all very much for the generous invitation to sail back to his country on their magnificent new ship. All the while, however, he searched furtively for Arthur, spotting him lurking at the very back of the gaggle in a white canvas chair. He wasn't talking to anyone, seeming to have in fact moved his seat back from the rest of the group as much as he could get away with, and sat with a rather glazed look in his eyes, staring vacantly somewhere out past the dock. He was dressed in a black coat, buttoned right up to the collar, and he was eating an apple.

"Excuse me," Alfred said to Stewart, slipping past him and weaving between chairs and men to get to Arthur, who blinked and looked uninterestedly up at him at the descent of his shadow.

Arthur raised one eyebrow, still chewing - he took his time over it before swallowing and addressing Alfred:

"You're late." He said it blandly, pausing barely a moment before sinking his teeth into his apple again.

"Yeah, well, my Ford can go a lot faster than your stupid road laws will allow it to," Alfred replied easily, sinking into the chair next to him. "So there."

"More like you bloody overslept," Arthur sighed, turning his half-eaten apple this way and that; it was very red and glossy, looking rather like it was made out of paste.

"Hey, give me a bite," Alfred said, reaching for it.

"Bugger off." Arthur deftly moved it out of his reach.

Alfred rolled his eyes, grinning.

"It's nice to see you too, Arty," he teased.

"Mmm." Arthur paused, then shrugged and went back to his apple.

Well, at least he hadn't bitten his head off. Alfred, not to be perturbed, nudged at Arthur with his foot.

"Excited about setting sail, Cap'n Kirkland?"

"Commodore," Arthur corrected cattily, "and no."

"Why not?" Alfred demanded, gesturing rather wildly around the deck. "This ship is _amazing_! I have never, in all my life, seen anything like this, really I haven't!" He glanced accusingly at Arthur. "And since this is the biggest and most well-furnished liner ever built, I know that _you_ haven't either!"

Arthur sighed, his green eyes hiking skyward.

"I haven't much care for squash courts or Turkish baths on board a ship," he said shortly. "Ships are for sailing and for sailors - they are for international trade! Who the _hell_ do White Star think they are, turning a ship into some manner of ghastly floating hotel?"

"Sshh." Alfred reached out and patted his hand, though Arthur swiftly pulled it away. "White Star is literally about two feet away."

"Oh, I think they're perfectly aware of my feelings," Arthur countered coolly. "I've certainly been vocal enough." He scowled as a First Class lady in a wide-brimmed hat (adorned with an entire peacock's tail, by the looks of it) swept past, her maid close at her heels. "Look at this," Arthur went on darkly, tossing his apple from one hand to the other. "The most pampered, useless, insufferable women our two countries have to offer, parading around like ruddy queens. They probably don't even know how a ship _works_."

"I don't think that was a requirement when forking out two thousand bucks for a ticket," Alfred said sagely.

Arthur exhaled deeply, biting into his apple once more.

"I preferred it when we didn't allow women on ships at all," he said bitterly through his mouthful. "Just well-trained sailors and enough grog to drink yourself blind."

Alfred smiled good-humouredly, shaking his head. He enjoyed Arthur's company even when he was grouchy and it had been so long since he'd last seen him in person - over ten years, in fact - that he couldn't bring himself to bristle at his unpleasantry. At least, he reasoned, Arthur was in marginally better form _than_ that last time: the funeral of his beloved Victoria in 1901. Alfred would pick irked over inconsolable any day.

There was something a little off about Arthur, though; something that Alfred couldn't quite place as he looked sidelong at him. He looked just a little different, perhaps, though his high-collared, double-breasted coat made it difficult to pinpoint exactly what. He was maybe a bit broader - at his chest and midsection rather than his shoulders - but perhaps it really _was_ just the sharp angular cut of his coat. Altogether he didn't look all that well, the unforgiving black bleaching out his skin to make his cheeks chalk-white.

"What time is the launch?" Alfred asked, attempting to spark conversation again.

"Noon." Arthur glanced irritably at him. "Didn't you even _look_ at your bloody ticket?"

Alfred laughed.

"I wasn't allowed to have my own ticket," he admitted. "I guess Jameson was scared I'd lose it."

Arthur gave another snort and took out his pocket watch, glancing at it before flashing the face towards Alfred.

"Should be going any minute now," he sighed. "As before, you're late. I've been sitting up here for at least forty-five minutes."

"So sorry to keep you waiting, Your Majesty." Alfred got up, offering Arthur his hand. "Come on, let's go over to the rail and get a good view."

"I'm perfectly happy here," Arthur said primly.

Alfred, however, took no notice, seizing Arthur's hand and pulling him out of his deck chair. He ignored his indignant blustering as he dragged him to the rail. The ship pulsed beneath their feet, steam billowing from her funnels as she readied herself for her maiden voyage, and Alfred leaned gleefully over the side to look down at the grey water swaying against her vast contours. A little way down from them, a man with a bulky Kodak camera was leaning over in a similar manner, perhaps snapping a black-and-white shot of the waving crowds on the quayside.

Arthur huffed at Alfred's side, turning his back to the dock to rest his elbows on the rail and finish his apple.

"I wish they'd hurry up," he muttered irritably. "This is my third apple. I don't want to have to fetch a fourth."

Alfred shot him an amused look - but said nothing as there seemed to come an enormous muffled roar from the innards of the ship and she shuddered before, finally, she began to move, her smoke thickening and her giant propellers seeming to burst the very water she stood in. She glided mightily, monstrously, with the air of a goddess - truly, it seemed, a Titan.

"We're going, we're going!" Alfred cried excitedly, leaning over again to wave to hundreds of people he didn't know, including a little boy so ecstatic that his mother was hanging onto him by his scarf to stop him falling into the quay. "Buck up, Arty," Alfred scolded jokingly, elbowing Arthur's side, "and wave to your people."

Arthur, nibbling the last of the flesh off the core, turned again with a half-hearted groan of irritation; but Alfred noticed him look past the quayside with a sudden frown, his jade eyes clouding with concern.

"What?" Alfred asked, keeping up his enthusiastic waving.

"That," Arthur replied, pointing at a much smaller steamship - which, clearly much too close to the gargantuan _Titanic_ , was straining oddly on her moorings, tilting and twisting until-

The sound of all of her cables snapping echoed like a six-gun salute, cracking sharply even over the bellow of _Titanic_ 's mighty engines. The displacement pushed and then pulled, the suction dragging the _SS City of New York_ right into the path of the _Titanic_ , where she drifted and waited, clearly, to be cleaved in half.

"Oh, _honestly_ ," Arthur sighed in disgust. "Thirty seconds into the launch and we're about to plough into something! Really, I've utterly _no_ time or patience for liners. A pack of _monkeys_ could steer a ship better - any sailor with half a brain could see that the _City of New York_ was much too close for a ship of this size to pass by her safely."

Alfred simply nodded obediently at this rant, worrying at his lip as he leaned over the side to watch the _New York_ bobbing, unmanned, in _Titanic_ 's path. The man with the camera inched up the rail to get a picture, stumbling as _Titanic_ dragged briefly, shuddering once more, then her bow swerved as her engines fell into reverse.

"Oh, thank god," Alfred breathed. "I think we're going to miss it!"

"Finally," Arthur countered calmly, "some _real_ seamen." He pointed towards a little tug, _Vulcan_ , charging valiantly towards _City of New York_ ; and they watched as she was pushed out of the way by the tug, both swaying as _Titanic_ plunged past them with barely feet to spare.

_City of New York_ , uncabled, was still drifting, bobbing away from _Vulcan_ again; _Titanic_ slowed and came to a gradual stop, unable to go much further before, at her astern angle, she crashed into the dockside. Arthur tutted impatiently, folding his arms across the rail.

"They'll have to get _City of New York_ under control before we can pull out," he muttered irritably. "God knows how long _that'll_ take." He watched at Alfred's side for a moment, noting the men scrambling over _Vulcan_ with cables in an attempt to bring the steamer under tug - with _City of New York_ drifting out of their reach again, it seemed as though it might take a while to bring her back to dock.

At length Arthur gave an impatient snort and pushed away from the rail.

"Well, I've done my bit, old boy," he said coolly. "I'm going to my cabin."

Alfred turned to him, blinking in surprise.

"But… but we haven't really launched yet!" he protested.

"We've as good as," Arthur replied curtly. "The fanfare is over. Now we'll just sit here for however long it takes _Vulcan_ to get that bloody steamer out of the way and then quietly push off again as if nothing had happened."

"But-" Alfred began again, wilting.

"Anyway, I've got a bit of work to do," Arthur went on with a sigh, patting Alfred's arm. "It needs attending to - and I'm rather tired, to be honest. I might have a lie down."

"O-oh, well, alright…"

"But," Arthur added, "do join me for dinner tonight, won't you?"

Alfred perked up again.

"Sure, that sounds swell!" he said, grinning. "Do you already have a table or-?"

"Oh, no," Arthur interrupted airily. "I won't be eating in the dining room. Come to my suite - we'll be dining there."

"Uh…" Alfred was nonplussed. "…Okay, if you say so."

"Excellent." Arthur nodded, smiling. "Well, then, I shall see you at eight. You'll excuse me, I must go and devise the menu."

And off he went with his black coat swaying. Alfred watched him vanish before turning back to his vigil at the rail, waiting for _Titanic_ to resume her triumphant departure; he grinned briefly at the man with the camera, who smiled back and leaned over to get a photograph of the _City of New York_ , perhaps marvelling at how tiny she was against the hulking form that had nearly sunk her.

It was nearing an hour before _Titanic_ finally pulled off again; much of the crowd on her decks had drifted indoors by the time she finally began to move once more and Alfred, shivering from the bitter wind, had to admit that it was a rather quieter affair than before. She slipped out with the haughty grace of a scorned woman and Alfred, glad to finally get inside after doing her the dignity of seeing her off (more than Arthur would do for her, it seemed), headed straight for the bar to join his colleagues and order something to warm himself up.

* * *

Alfred spent most of the afternoon engaged in a lone, thorough exploration of the ship. He visited all seven decks and at least peeped into every open room, notably comparing the dining rooms between classes. By far the most opulent, of course, was the First Class saloon. He was allowed anywhere on the ship he pleased, of course, but still, for a brief moment he was ticked off at himself for refusing the First Class suite White Star Line had originally offered him - he might have even been roomed next door to Arthur had he accepted - but then, on observing the porcelain antics of the upper classes, British and American alike, he remembered why he had turned it down. Being a nation, he had no want of anything - he had houses all over his vast country in addition to private rooms for his own use in the White House, not to mention a bottomless expenses account - but he was not really like these people and couldn't bring himself to behave like them. He was old, yes, but not old _money_.

He was happier, he felt, in Second Class, which was comfortable with luxury enough - but without all the godforsaken airs and graces. Arthur was more apt to suck it up and at least act the part; though Alfred knew, really, that _even_ Arthur was none-too-fond of the age-old class divide human society so insisted upon. To a nation, their people were simply their people: they made no distinction between those with money and those without. It made no difference to them whatsoever.

After all, Arthur might haven taken the grand First Class suite thrust upon him - upwards of four thousand dollars a ticket - but he had probably been happier sleeping on the splintered floor of a galleon with his own coat for a blanket.

After a poke about in the library to see if there were any crime serials, a quick smoke in the First Class smoking room with a Philadelphian millionaire who took a shine to him and a brief fool around in the gym (before he was chased), Alfred fetched his coat and a scarf and headed back up to the promenade deck to watch as _Titanic_ pulled smoothly into port at Cherbourg, France. The time, by his pocket watch, was nearing five o' clock and the pretty quayside, lined with hundreds more people, was basked in a warm, belated afternoon blaze as the sun began to slow.

Unlike Southampton, which was designed for ships as big as those of the _Olympic_ -classand perhaps even bigger, Cherbourg could not take a ship of _Titanic_ 's girth right into the dock and she was obliged to drop anchor a little way out. Two little tenders were ready to attend her like ladies-in-waiting and Alfred watched from the railing as dozens more passengers began to board from the quayside, stepping into the small steamers to make their way across. They were mostly Steerage, it seemed, for only a few boarded on the higher deck Alfred was on - but he was surprised to note a very familiar face drifting through the crowd from the gangplank, his gold hair bobbing at his shoulders.

"Francis!" Alfred couldn't hold back his bemusement. "I didn't know you were travelling on the _Titanic_ too! Honestly, I thought Arthur might have said!"

But Francis merely gave a comical grin and put his finger to his lips.

"I'm actually not travelling," he admitted, smiling. "I was invited but I have much work to do. I just thought I would come on for a little look around while the ship is in my harbour. As for Arthur, he does not know - and let us keep it that way, non?"

"Uh, yeah, sure."

"Ah, but she is _magnifique_!" Francis said, gesturing overzealously around the deck. "She is truly a splendid sight from afar, too." He shook his head. "My my, Arthur's superiors do spoil him so."

"He doesn't like her," Alfred said piously, patting _Titanic_ 's rail as though to comfort her. "He said liners are a waste of space and then he got really mad at White Star Line."

Francis gave a snort.

"That ungrateful little harpy," he muttered; and he linked his arm through Alfred's. "Well, come, come! She will be docked for about an hour and a half - more than enough time for you to take me for a drink."

Having been alone all afternoon - but for the brief encounter with the millionaire - Alfred thought the company of another nation sounded rather agreeable. He considered taking Francis to Gaspare Gatti's Café Parisien, modelled distinctly after the beautiful sunlit restaurants on Paris' pretty winding streets, but then thought better of it - Gatti, of course, was Italian, and Francis, though he had a soft spot for Feliciano, often had a wicked tongue towards him as well. Alfred didn't want to give him reason to mock what, to the national personification of France, was probably a poor imitation of his culture - and he was swift in guiding Francis to the First Class bar instead. He ordered a coffee for himself but Francis browsed the wine menu thoroughly before plumping for an expensive French red.

"First Class," Francis said with an arch of his eyebrows as the waiter left with their order. "I hope you won't mind my saying that it is… _unlike_ you, Mr Jones."

Alfred laughed.

"Isn't it?" he replied. "Actually, I'm in Second Class. I got offered First Class but I didn't think I could stick the pretence for a week. All you older guys are much better at that act than me."

"I'm sure I should be offended," Francis replied cheerfully. "You are correct, of course. We have had centuries of kings to practice our manners upon." He gave an airy gesture of thanks to the waiter as he returned with their drinks, pausing to take a delicate taster-sip before nodding to have the glass filled. "Still, mon ami, this is very much the First Class bar." He gave a lewd grin, reaching for his glass. "Are you trying to impress me?"

Alfred shrugged, smiling.

"My accommodation is Second Class but I'm allowed to go anywhere I want on the ship," he said. "I didn't want to seem rude by offering you the pleasure of anything less."

Francis laughed.

"I am suitably impressed by your manners, at least," he replied warmly. "Arthur would have entertained me in Steerage, I'm sure - had he entertained me at all."

"Aww, come on," Alfred sighed, stirring his coffee. "He's not that bad and you know it. He's just… grouchy."

"Mmm." Francis looked up at the magnificent baroque ceiling. "But he can be reckless when he is miserable."

Alfred frowned.

"Why would he be miserable?" he asked over his cup. "He's the richest guy in the world. He has a third of the globe to his name. He's had an amazing life - honestly I'm pretty jealous of some of it-"

"Yes, it does seem petty of him to sulk," Francis cut in quietly. "He has everything a nation could possibly want. I have been where he is now and there is no greater feeling than that of holding the world in your hand. He revelled in it, of course, when he had Victoria on his arm, but…" Francis shrugged. "Well, the world is changing, Alfred. The days of ruling the high seas and conquering unknown lands are at last coming to their end - I fear we may be nearing the edge of the map. This is Arthur's worry too and you must know that he is right to be concerned. Soon there will be no place for Old Empires like us."

"Well," Alfred said shortly, "perhaps that would be for the best."

Francis smiled, his wine glowing as he lifted it to his pale lip.

"Perhaps you are right," he replied, "but it must be difficult for Arthur, knowing that the rug is fast being pulled from beneath his feet. This beautiful ship - and her sister, too, _L'Olympique_ \- are proof that the world he conquered is disappearing." He smirked. "Why, whoever heard of a ship with luxuries such as this? A reading room? Real sailors were illiterate. An à la carte menu? Where are the biscuits riddled with weevils?" He shook his head and sipped at his wine. "Next they will be allowing women on board!"

Alfred shrugged.

"If he felt that strongly about it," he pointed out, "he could have refused the passage."

"Arthur is a man of duty," Francis said lightly, looking into his glass. "Admire him for that if nothing else."

* * *

Having necked three glasses of free wine, Francis had left on one of the tenders at around seven and Alfred had headed back to his room to wonder what he was going to wear; given that they weren't to be eating in the dining suite, First Class or otherwise, he had absolutely no idea what was appropriate. He had one proper formal dinner suit, which he hated and hoped to be reprieved from wearing as much as humanly possible; if it was only going to be the two of them, surely it didn't matter too much how he presented himself (though he knew perfectly well that Arthur could be terribly fussy and might be ticked off if he turned up unkempt).

Eventually, after fretting in front of the mirror for a good half an hour, he settled on a dark red waistcoat with a slim black cravat, forgoing a jacket. He didn't think Arthur would mind terribly - and besides, he was fairly certain that he could soon direct his attention elsewhere. He hadn't been (properly) alone with Arthur for almost eleven years; sure, they had exchanged letters a few times a year but it wasn't the same thing. Alfred had missed him, missed his sharp manner of speech and his calculated way of looking at the world. Francis' words still rang with him, of course, capering delightedly around his head: that Arthur was unhappy and closed-up and bitter because the world was powdering itself in pastel colours, with evidence like the _Titanic_ floating on jewelled and calm seas.

He admitted that it explained Arthur's scorn, at the very least.

Still, he hoped that he would be able to provide distraction enough. They had so much to talk about - Alfred wanted to tell Arthur, in person, all about the progressions he had been making back in the States, about the railroads and the cities and the planes, oh yes, _especially_ the planes, it just wasn't the same story without the dramatic hand actions. And in return, of course, Arthur would tell him about his adventures, the Mughal rubies he'd unearthed in distant corners of his Empire, the daring escapes he'd made from bottled-in bays - they didn't even have to be recent stories, Alfred was happy to hear the Same Old again. Arthur had such a lucid way of telling tales, details changing ever-so-slightly between versions, like edits or revisions, little perfections, so that you were never quite sure if he was exaggerating, fibbing and forgetting himself, or if he just hadn't gotten it right the first time around. Regardless, Alfred always listened with rapt interest, drawn in irretrievably. He longed for that again, to curl up in front of the fire with a spiced drink and Arthur's rehearsed glory. The rust of the world Arthur still yearned for was admittedly Alfred's favourite fodder, too.

He was greeted at the door to Arthur's suite by a serving-man, who addressed him politely and ushered him into the plush drawing room. Arthur appeared to have half of Buckingham Palace with him, all manner of maids and valets and other servants milling about the spacious quarters; Alfred was offered a seat and something to drink by the butler, being swept under by the overbearing efficiency, the surreal insistence, of the service. Certainly there didn't seem to be much room for refusal, and Alfred sat obediently with a whisky, taking a tentative and displeased sip every now and then, as he waited for Arthur to emerge from his dressing room.

The suite, of course, had exquisite décor, burnished gold and flourishings of Neo-classicism occupying every corner. It didn't look very lived in, though. There were some papers on the desk and a leather-bound book on the coffee table and that was it. Granted they'd only been on the ship for barely more than an afternoon but Alfred, as was his way, had lost no time at all in ensuring that all of his possessions were thoroughly strewn all over his room; and Arthur, too, when at home was very much a connoisseur of absent-minded clutter. Alfred was honestly surprised to see the place so neat - it was as though Arthur was consciously trying to occupy as little of the given space as possible.

Alfred was lifting the cover of the book with a fingertip to peer at the title page - _Peter Pan and Wendy_ by J. M. Barrie - when Arthur finally appeared in the drawing room doorway. He was dressed for dinner in a manner akin to Alfred: a white waistcoat with embroidered detail in gold trim and an emerald green cravat fastened with a pearl pin. His eyes too seemed very green when they fell on Alfred - and for a moment the imperious manner with which he usually presented himself (and had done so at the boarding) was not there. He smiled shyly at Alfred as he came into the room.

Alfred blinked, taken aback. He stared for a moment, unable to speak - and really he knew it was rude of him but he couldn't help it. He hadn't been imagining things earlier, it seemed. It hadn't been the coat. Arthur had, without a doubt, put on quite a bit of weight.

" _What_?" Arthur asked testily, his disposition changing immediately; at once he grew irritable and defensive, scowling at Alfred.

"Oh, n-nothing," Alfred replied hurriedly, catching himself. "Sorry, I was just… um… it's… really just _great_ to see you, you know?"

Arthur looked crossly at him for a moment longer - then sighed and put a hand on his hip, wilting.

"It's alright," he muttered. "I don't blame you for staring. You cannot _possibly_ have failed to notice that I've put on about ten tonnes since I last saw you."

"Oh," Alfred breathed warily, "come on now, Arty…"

"It's a bloody disgrace, really," Arthur went on nonchalantly; he crossed the room and flopped down on the plush couch next to Alfred. "What can I say? Middle age spread."

"I guess so." Alfred fidgeted a little. "…Gee, I didn't mean to stare at you like that, it's just… well, I've never seen you like this before, you've always been so-"

"Scrawny." Arthur laughed humourlessly, crossing one leg over the other. "It _is_ peculiar, isn't it?" He leaned his head back and sighed again. "Immortal - and yet not immune to the all-too-human fallacy of eating too much cake."

"Are you sure it was _just_ cake?"

"Oh, shut up." Arthur smacked savagely at him. "Honestly, barely a minute and you're already being cruel."

"Sorry." Alfred gave a sheepish grin and squeezed Arthur's arm (which was definitely a lot plumper than it had ever been before). "It's just… pretty surreal. You don't look like, well, _you_."

"Mm." Arthur gave a little snort. "I suppose I've had longer to get used to it than you. My waistline's been expanding since at least 1904."

Alfred opened his mouth to reply; wincing instead when Arthur gave a sudden clear, brilliant, high-pitched whistle which brought the serving-man scurrying in from an adjacent room.

"Sir?" he inquired, bobbing into a bow.

"Bring me something to drink, would you?" Arthur said boredly, flapping his hand at him. "On the rocks. I don't care what it is." He looked towards Alfred. "You have something already, I trust?"

"O-oh, yes." Alfred reached to the coffee table to retrieve his unwanted whisky, cradling it in his lap to appease Arthur. "I've already been seen to."

"Grand. Well, get to it, then." Arthur snapped his fingers at the serving man, who nodded and bustled away again. He glanced again to Alfred, who was watching him uneasily, not sure how to take his behaviour. "Oh, it's an experiment," Arthur confided, lowering his voice. "I do wonder how horrible and demanding I have to be before they go away and leave me in peace."

Alfred arched his eyebrows.

"That seems… uncalled for," he said.

"Yes, it is a bit," Arthur agreed. "Not to mention downright unattractive, eh?"

"I-I guess."

At this Alfred made a subtle reach for Arthur's hand resting on the couch; his fingertips brushed it, inching with the intent to close around it, but Arthur swiftly pulled it away as though he considered Alfred's attempt insincere at best. He smiled at Alfred again but, unlike the abashed greeting of before, it did not quite light his eyes, flickering weakly in the green before shuddering out.

Arthur's drink came, flashing amber over the steep inclines of ice, and he busied himself with it over making idle small-talk with Alfred; topics like the weather and steam trains and the government. They weren't the sort of things they had ever talked about before, nor indeed anything like the topics broached in their letters. Trying not to cough on his whisky, Alfred couldn't help but think that altogether this seemed a bit… _impersonal_ , somewhat distant, as though they didn't really know each other. Arthur seemed a little wary of him, his manner guarded and his words cherry-picked with utmost care.

It was very strange, Alfred thought gloomily, when he and Arthur had been more than comfortable enough in each other's company to sleep together in the past; casual lovers with a good, warm friendship, or so they _had_ been until right now, it seemed.

It couldn't just be the weight, although that _did_ definitely sit between them as an unwanted barrier, distorting Alfred's constant memory of Arthur so that he was derailed every time he looked at him. It wasn't as though Arthur had put on a hundred pounds or anything, honestly it likely wasn't much more than thirty (forty, perhaps, at an absolute push), but he'd been slender before and it was very noticeable on him, sitting for the most part on his belly and hips. The gold buttons on his waistcoat strained whenever he moved, the bottom one undone and gaping. This was the way of the old men Alfred was always surrounded by back home - they were young and fit and slim until the stress and years began to settle heavily upon them, clinging to their waistlines and powdering their hair grey. Arthur still looked young, of course, his hair the pale gold of a schoolboy's, his skin flawed only by battlescars, but it seemed that he had begun to indeed fall prey to the other weaknesses of the human condition. Watching him down his scotch with far more confidence than _he_ approached his whisky, Alfred did wonder exactly how pickled Arthur's innards were.

There was a knock at the door to the suite and, at its opening, a dark-haired man in a neat black steward's uniform briskly entered. He carried a small red leather-bound notebook and Arthur notably perked up at his presence, putting his drink aside.

"Mr Jacobs," he said pleasantly, rising. "You have the figures, I trust?"

"Of course, sir." Jacobs turned the notebook towards him as they met; the page, Alfred could see, was lined with small neat writing and columns of numbers. "Everything is exact."

"Oh, you _are_ wonderful," Arthur said warmly, taking the notebook. "I have the list over on the desk. Do they need it back immediately?"

"I think they can wait, sir. I'll return it when you are finished eating."

"Excellent. It'll save me writing it out. I still need to do my calculations."

Alfred was baffled by this exchange, watching Arthur in silence as he went to the desk and put the notebook on top of his papers. Jacobs bowed and left and Arthur, after nodding his thanks, retrieved a small card with a gold border. He came back to Alfred with it, holding it out for him.

"This is tonight's menu," he said as Alfred took it. "It's set. I hope you don't mind."

"Oh, you know me," Alfred replied, scanning over it. "I'll eat anything."

This, too, was handwritten - he recognised Arthur's antique, gorgeous hand in glossy black ink. To start, cockie leekie soup with dumplings; lobster in a champagne sauce with steamed vegetables for the main; and, to finish, apple meringue with-

" _American_ ice-cream?" Alfred read aloud, grinning.

Arthur shrugged.

"That's how it's written on the inventory," he said lightly. "I copied it accordingly." He cleared his throat. "I assume it's satisfactory? The entire menu, I mean."

"Yeah," Alfred replied, handing it back. "It sounds _great_ , really, but I just wonder-"

"Let's fetch our drinks and go through," Arthur interrupted, sweeping past him and plucking the menu from his hand. "It shouldn't be long until the soup arrives."

Alfred hadn't much choice, then, but to retrieve his barely-touched whisky and follow Arthur next door into a small but lavish dining area. The table, carved mahogany, was already laid up for two with gleaming silverware and the first serving-man was standing by, waiting. Arthur gestured to the opposite seat as he handed the menu neatly to the servant and sank into his own; and he smiled at Alfred as he began to unfold his napkin.

"Thank you for joining me," he said, pressing it out. "I don't often have company dining. It'll be nice to have someone to talk to."

Alfred was surprised.

"Really?" he asked, shaking out his own napkin. "You used to be pretty social back in the 1800s."

"Yes, well," Arthur said, "nobody seems to think I'm worth bothering with anymore."

Alfred frowned.

"You boarded this ship with a whole bunch of people," he pointed out. "Why can't you eat with them?"

Arthur gestured around the small space.

"I don't think there's room," he said airily.

"Well, _yeah_ , not in here," Alfred replied incredulously. "But you have a First Class ticket! Why aren't you eating in the First Class dining room?"

Arthur gave a sigh.

"It's… I'd rather not go into it, really," he said, looking away.

Alfred paused, thrown off.

"W-well," he went on, "what was all that out there with that steward? You were talking about… _calculations_ and whatnot-"

"That, too, is something I'd rather not discuss." Arthur looked up as the serving-man came back with two steaming bowls of cockie leekie, their plates piled with fresh-baked bread. "Enough, now - our starter is here."

"But I-"

"Alfred, _please_."

Alfred gave up, seeing that he was getting nowhere other than making Arthur agitated. He settled, thanking the servant as he put his soup in front of him and reaching for his spoon-

"That's a dessert spoon, Alfred," Arthur corrected him flatly as he beckoned the serving-man back over. "I say, bring me a glass of white wine, would you? The driest we have."

The servant nodded.

"Of course, sir," he replied, turning to Alfred. "And for sir?"

Alfred, grumbling to himself about a spoon being a spoon so what the hell difference did it make, looked up gratefully, glad to be shot of the whisky.

"Gee, I don't suppose you have any lemonade?" he asked hopefully.

The servant and Arthur both looked at him for a long moment.

" _Lemonade_ ," Arthur repeated, "with _dinner_."

Alfred shrugged.

"Sure, why not?"

"If that is what sir wants," the serving-man said, though he sounded uncertain. "I'll have the drinks brought with the dumplings." He bustled off, leaving Alfred still aware of Arthur regarding him oddly over his soup.

"What?" Alfred asked lightly, going back to his own.

Arthur blinked, then shook his head and smiled again.

"I forgot," he said quietly, "how much I've missed you."

* * *

After dinner, which was marvellous down to the last detail (incidentally, the crisp golden crust on the apple meringue), they retreated back into the parlour with cigars. Arthur, after two glasses of white wine and the last of his scotch, had switched to brandy and was quite talkative, certainly more than a little bit tipsy. Alfred, who didn't drink much at all by comparison, had an unorthodox cup of cocoa, the warmth of which was welcome; _Titanic_ wasn't cold, exactly, but her rooms had high ceilings and the fire was beginning to simmer down. By the clock on the mantelpiece, it was nearing half past eleven.

"I might have known the nosy bugger couldn't resist a look around," Arthur declared, deftly tapping off his ash with a practiced hand. "Did he really tell you not to tell me?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied, exhaling his smoke through his nose. "Oops." He laughed. "I really wasn't going to, it just sort of… slipped out. He's pretty impressed, by the way."

Arthur snorted.

"As if I care what that beardy frog thinks," he said sharply. "Besides, I've always wondered what need _he_ has for ships - what with his webbed toes and all." He reached for his brandy with the hand holding his cigar, bringing it to his mouth for a quick knock-back. "Honestly, if I'd known he was on here, I'd have tossed him the hell overboard."

"That's probably why he wanted to keep it quiet," Alfred reasoned cheerfully. "Anyway, what do you care? You don't even _like_ the old girl!"

"She's a very _new_ girl, I'll have you know - a new, expensive girl who won't be any use if there's a war."

Alfred scoffed.

"There's not going to _be_ a war," he said dismissively.

"Oh?" Arthur's green eyes glinted at him. "Well, I do wish you'd tell Ludwig that - and Roderich and Elizaveta and bloody Gilbert."

Alfred shook his head.

"You'd wipe the floor with them. They'd have to be mad," he said. "Utterly _mental_."

"Well, perhaps they are."

Alfred shrugged.

"Well, if it _does_ come to that," he reasoned, "perhaps _Titanic_ will be useful after all. I mean, she's so huge! She'd pretty much just have to ram something to sink it, right?" He gave a whistle. "Jeez, _I_ sure wouldn't want to be up against a ship this massive."

Arthur smirked.

"I suppose, with a few guns fitted, she might do a turn or two," he relented. "She _and_ her sisters."

"Oh, yeah, they're building another one, aren't they?"

"Yes." Arthur nodded. " _Gigantic_ , I think the name is."

Alfred pulled a face.

"I think _Titanic_ and _Olympic_ sound better," he said. "Poor baby sister gets the worst name, huh?"

"Oh, but really, they're all just words describing the size, aren't they?" Arthur sighed. "I prefer names which describe the kind of damage a ship can do: _Warrior_ , you might say, or _Dreadnought_."

"Yeah, you sure love that _Dreadnought_ , huh?"

"Indeed. I'm thinking about composing a sonnet addressed to her, actually."

Alfred laughed in delight.

"I would pay good money to see you read a love poem to a battleship, Art."

Arthur simply shot him a strangely self-deprecating smile.

It was getting past midnight when Alfred, exhausted after a long day, finally began to crash. He got up, thinking that if he stayed here much longer, as nice as it was, he was going to fall asleep right on the couch.

"Heading to bed?" Arthur asked, looking up at him.

Alfred nodded.

"I'm about ready to hit the floor," he admitted with a sleepy smile. "But thanks very much for tonight - everything was great, especially the company."

"I couldn't agree more." Arthur rose himself, heading towards the suite door at Alfred's side. "Thank you for coming, Alfred. I did worry that you might have other plans."

Alfred grinned as Arthur opened the door for him.

"Are you kidding?" he asked, stepping neatly over the threshold. "This might just be the nation in me talking to, you know, another nation but… I reckon you're the most interesting person on this ship. It's been… so nice just to talk to you and just… just spend some time with you after so long, you know? You really haven't changed a bit."

Arthur, his eyes hooded, made a point of gesturing himself down.

"Are you quite sure?" he asked, fidgeting absently with one of his straining buttons.

Alfred rolled his eyes.

"As if I care about that," he said firmly.

"You stared at me," Arthur pointed out, leaning against the door frame.

"Because I was _surprised_ ," Alfred replied. "But it doesn't matter to me. I mean, to be honest, my own weight goes up and down like a jack-in-the-box-"

"There's more to it than my having put on a few stone," Arthur cut in crossly.

"Look, what _exactly_ is this a test for?" Alfred asked, growing impatient.

"Nothing." Arthur sighed and looked away. "Nothing. It doesn't matter. I'm just… just being silly." He pushed off from the doorframe again. "I need to do my calculations, anyway. Goodnight, Alfred."

He began to close the door; but Alfred put his foot in the gap, stopping him. Arthur opened it again, seeming irritated.

"What?" he asked.

"Well, uh…" Alfred coughed, trying to smooth over the sudden sour touch. "…Do you have any plans for tomorrow?"

"I have to write my menus."

" _Aside_ from that?" Alfred pushed, baffled once again.

"…I suppose not."

"Then let's do something together."

"Such as?"

"I don't know - we can figure that out then. Look, I'll come here tomorrow, after breakfast-"

"Eleven," Arthur said immediately. "I'll be finished by then."

"Alright, eleven it is."

Arthur nodded.

"Very well." He put his hand to the door again. "Then I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yeah." Alfred stepped back, unable to stall the moment any longer. "Well, um, goodnight."

Arthur rewarded him with a furtive smile.

"Goodnight, Alfred." He closed the suite door, leaving Alfred in the hall.

Alfred, of course, had been debating pulling him into a kiss - just to see where it got him. It had gotten him into Arthur's bed in the past, after all - but something about tonight just didn't feel right. Arthur was the same but also so guarded, so _detached_ , that Alfred's courage had actually failed him. He had felt, somehow, that a cheeky peck (testing the waters, so to speak) might not have been looked kindly upon given that Arthur didn't seem quite as comfortable with him as usual.

He didn't seem quite as comfortable with _anything_ , in fact - as though, Alfred mused as he dressed for bed in his cosy Second Class cabin, he considered the gorgeous and groundbreaking _Titanic_ to be a prison.

* * *

You know, this _really isn't_ a retelling of James Cameron's _Titanic_ but, after seeing the film's re-release in the cinema last night (2D FTW! Also it was just exciting because I didn't get to see it on the big screen when it first came out - I was too little~ :C), I've realised that Alfred and Arthur might be channelling Jack and Rose a little bit all the same. Pretty much just because Alfred's all "lololol which fork do I use?" and Arthur's all "Gahhhh I'm rich but I'm so _trapped_ T.T". Ugh, I guess their personalities just match up too perfectly - this is why _Titanic_ USUK fics are so common. And after I tried _so hard_ to be different, lawl.

WARNING: Iceberg (of notes) right ahead:

The incident with the _SS City of New York_ is completely true! _Titanic_ 's maiden voyage almost ended in disaster a full five days before it eventually ended in disaster when she sucked the tiny (by comparison) _City of New York_ into her path when she passed her at Southampton. Quick-thinking tug _Vulcan_ saved the day but _Titanic_ was delayed by about an hour. The man with the camera mentioned in this chapter - notably taking pictures of the near-miss - was a real person: his name was Father Francis Browne, an Irish priest, and he took the last pictures of _Titanic_ and her interiors while on board her. This fellow was extremely lucky! He disembarked _Titanic_ on April 11th when she pulled into port at Queenstown, Ireland (now known as Cobh); he made friends with an American millionaire couple on board who took such a liking to him that they offered to pay his fare (First Class!) all the way to New York and back if he would travel with them! Fr Browne had to ask permission from his superior, of course, who was having none of it and in as many words ordered him to get his arse off that ship. At the time, Browne was likely very disappointed but his superior probably saved his life but not allowing him to hang around with generous American millionaires. Many of the most famous pictures of _Titanic_ , including the very last one of her taken as she leaves Queenstown to head out into the Atlantic Ocean, are Fr Browne's.

Alfred's musings about the prices of First Class tickets (which differed depending on how grand the suite) are true - prices were in British sterling, with the exchange rate in 1912 being $5 to £1. The highest price back then was almost £900, making it certainly upwards of $4000 a ticket - a price which today converts to a whopping $70,000! O.o

_Peter Pan and Wendy_ was published in 1911, making it a brand-new book (and full of fairies and pirates and all of Arthur's favourite things~) in 1912!

All the things mentioned on menus in _all_ the chapters of this story, btw, are genuinely taken from any menus/inventories from _Titanic_ and _Olympic_ that I could dig up. Potted shrimps and corned ox tongue, anyone? :3

**Some interesting facts about** _**Titanic** _ **'s two sister ships:**

\- _RMS Titanic_ was the middle sister; the eldest was _RMS Olympic_ , launched in 1911, and the youngest (only proposed at the time of _Titanic_ 's launch) was _RMS/HMHS Britannic_ , launched in 1914. _Gigantic_ , mentioned by Arthur here, was apparently the original proposed name for _Britannic_ , keeping with the "big" naming trend - however, after the sinking of the _Titanic_ and some mishaps involving the _Olympic_ , White Star officially changed the third sister's name to _Britannic_ , which was considered lucky. Unfortunately, it turned out to not be lucky at all - _Britannic_ also sank despite enhanced safety measures incorporated into her design following the _Titanic_ disaster. _RMS Olympic_ , the oldest of the three, was the only one to complete a full working career, finally being scrapped in 1935.

\- Despite staying afloat, _Olympic_ was pretty unlucky herself! The smallest of the three, she collided with a British battleship, _HMS Hawke_ , in 1911 - the needed repairs moved _Titanic_ , still being fitted out, out of her dry dock, delaying her maiden voyage. Alfred's comment in this chapter, saying that _Titanic_ might be useful in a war situation because of her size, actually refers to a later incident involving the _Olympic_ : During WWI, _Olympic_ was used to ferry munitions and troops all over the place; in 1918, she was en route to France carrying US soldiers when she was spotted by a German U-boat, which attempted to torpedo her. _Olympic_ rammed the U-boat, slicing through the pressure hull and sinking it. (Actually, _Olympic_ was sort of the opposite to _Titanic_ : instead of sinking herself, she was good at sinking other ships. She accidentally struck and sank the _Nantucket Lightship LV-117_ in 1934. Some Titanoraks even like to argue that if _Olympic_ hadn't moved _Titanic_ from her dry dock in 1911, her maiden voyage wouldn't have been delayed and she would have missed the iceberg by weeks!)

\- The outbreak of WWI prevented _RMS Britannic_ , the newest and largest of the _Olympic_ -class line, from being used as a transatlantic passenger liner like her older sisters. In 1915 she was put to use as a hospital ship instead, earning her the prefix _HMHS_ (His Majesty's Hospital Ship). Barely a year later, in late 1916, she struck a German mine just off a Greek island and sank much faster than the _Titanic_ in only fifty-five minutes due to the extensive damage from the explosion and portholes left open for ventilation by the nurses. Her survival rate far exceeded _Titanic'_ s, however, with only thirty lives lost.

Okay, that's enough of that! Sorry, I know I can be one of those annoying textbook authors sometimes…

See you guys tomorrow (I hope?)!

xXx

(Jameson - Accidental subconcious contraction of 'James Cameron'? o.O idek any more!)


	3. Thursday April 11th, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitchslaps, raw oysters and ghosts~

Thursday April 11, 1912

Alfred slept heavily after a troublesome first hour trying to acclimatise to the incessant roar of _Titanic_ 's engines; her walls trembled with her heartbeat, something he wasn't used to (he had sailed over on a rockier ship with much less firepower), but at long last his exhaustion won out and he slept like the dead.

Rising at around nine, he shaved and dressed and headed down to breakfast with his small party; they ate with a few White Star representatives and Sherman, the naval officer travelling with Arthur. Arthur himself, of course, was not present.

"Seriously, since when is he such a recluse?" Alfred asked Sherman over his coffee. "He used to throw all those parties and everything!"

"I wouldn't recall any of those, sir," Sherman replied tersely. "I'm only thirty-two."

"Oh, wow, well, you missed out," Alfred said cheerfully, helping himself to a second bowl of boiled hominy (with a liberal dousing of maple syrup). "Some of them were completely crazy - one time Gilbert and I were looking for somewhere to throw up all the champagne we'd just wrestled off Francis and we turned a corner into this room - this was at Hampton Court Palace, by the way, I mean Victoria was _there_ at the time - and there was a _lion_ in there. An actual live lion, just wandering around! Arthur later said he didn't know how it got there but Francis swears he helped him shanghai it from the zoo the night before for a bit of authenticity. Oh, and this other time Ludwig almost choked to death on this huge half-crown in his slice of Christmas pudding-"

"I couldn't tell you," Sherman interrupted swiftly, "why his behaviour has become so strange."

"-And Arty used to pour the wine for everyone by jumping on the table and slicing the tops off the bottles with a rapier, except one time the bottle shattered because he did it wrong and he cut his whole hand open-"

"Well," cut in a White Star man with a grin, "we're rather glad he's calmed down of late. We wouldn't want that sort of behaviour on board _Titanic_. Ladies, you know, have a sensitive disposition and we wouldn't wish to subject them to such shocking displays. They'd surely faint!"

"Queen Victoria thought it was hilarious," Alfred replied with a shrug. "Especially when he cut his hand open. She called him a card and said she was very much amused and it was good of him to go to such lengths to entertain her."

"Well," blustered the White Star man, "I-I couldn't possibly comment, having never met her myself."

"She was good fun when the mood took her." Alfred looked thoughtfully at the ceiling. "…So was Arthur."

Sherman gave a snort.

"You mustn't let his sulking get to you," he said. "Because that's all it is."

Alfred frowned.

"I wonder," he replied absently.

After finishing breakfast - a generous First Class spread including all kinds of fish, grilled sausages and bacon and lamb chops, fresh fruit and grits and breakfast potatoes and all varieties of toasted bread - Alfred headed to the smoking room for a little while, idly watching the hands crawl around his pocket watch until they neared eleven. Usually he hadn't much regard for exactness, turning up for appointments whenever he felt like it, but his dining experience last night had told him that Arthur's temper was shorter than it had ever been before and he didn't want to give him cause to be ticked off before he even saw him.

He wondered what Arthur might like to do today as he headed to his suite; apparently all manner of boisterous shenanigans were off the agenda (for fear of making ladies faint), which dampened dreams of fencing between _Titanic_ 's funnels. He hoped Arthur wouldn't just want to sit in the library all day with his nose in a book…

He was admitted entry to Arthur's suite by the serving-man of the night before, finding Arthur himself at the writing desk poring over various sheets. At his side sat a dainty teacup, brimming with an amber Indian brew, and a slice of sugared Madeira on a plate; the fork was in his hand, twirled between his fingers like a conductor's baton as he thought.

Alfred cleared his throat behind him and Arthur started a little, then turned.

"Oh, good morning, Alfred," he said pleasantly; his eyebrows arched briefly before falling back into their characteristic frown. "Apologies, I'm so wrapped up I didn't even hear you come in."

"It's fine, don't worry about it." Alfred flapped his hands noncommittally. "What are you doing?"

"My lunch menu," Arthur said airily. "Well, mulling it over. It's a very precise process."

"Uh huh." Alfred frowned as he watched Arthur reach for his cake, spearing his fork into it. "I… I don't mean to be rude or anything but… surely you just had breakfast?"

"Elevenses." Arthur gave a sour smile. "It's a bad habit of mine. Would you like a slice? It's awfully good."

"Oh, um, no, I just ate." Alfred said it meaningfully as he watched Arthur digging into the Madeira.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes.

"Don't preach to me," he said acidly. "Bad habits are difficult to break. So many are born of boredom, you see."

"Well, I'm here to relieve you of your boredom!" Alfred chirped. "So come on, put down the cake and let's go and do something! There's a pool table somewhere on this maze of a ship - I'm sure we could find it."

"Not until after lunch," Arthur said, certainly not putting down the cake.

"W-well…" Alfred faltered. "When's lunch?"

"One o' clock. I think it'll be a cold affair today, potted meat and the like… Would you care to join me?"

"I… well, maybe, but-" Alfred began.

"No, no," Arthur sighed, "I can't get on with 'maybe'. I need you to be definite. Do you want to have lunch with me, Alfred? Yes or no?"

"Well, sure, _yes_ , but…" Alfred folded his arms. "Why at one exactly? Can't we go play pool first and just see what time we finish? What's the big deal?"

"I _told_ you, it's a very precise process," Arthur replied icily, stiffening in his seat. "I like my timing to be exact, it makes things easier for me."

Alfred groaned.

"Where's your spontaneity, old man?" he grumbled. "You used to have more than I could keep up with."

"Gone with my bloody glory," Arthur snapped, going back to his cake. "Forgive me if I like to have a little control over these precious few things. Besides, one can't be wishy-washy in these matters, think of poor Mr Jacobs. How rude it would be of me to simply swan off and then return at god knows what time demanding lunch on such short notice!"

"All three dining saloons offer luncheon from one to three in the afternoon!" Alfred said impatiently. "We can just drop by any of those whenever we finish!"

Arthur simply shot him a frosty glare between bites.

"Out of the question," he said delicately, swallowing. "I simply must dine in my suite."

" _Why?_ " Alfred burst out. "Why the _hell_ do you have to eat here? What's the big deal, Arthur? Are you such a "real" sailing snob that you can't bear to dine with… with White Star officials and ladies and-"

"Don't shout at me, Alfred," Arthur interrupted tersely, pressing one hand to his temple. He put down his half-eaten cake, reaching for his tea instead. "Don't, I simply can't stand it."

"Well, my god, you're being so difficult!" Alfred argued. "I just don't see what the problem is! If it's not _that_ then… well, you're eating exactly the same food as they're serving in the dining saloons, right?"

"Alfred, don't _shout_ at me." Arthur exhaled, closing his eyes. His brow scrunched as though he was in pain.

Alfred took a breath, controlling himself. He was utterly exasperated.

"Well," he said flatly, "I just… I don't understand why-"

"No," Arthur interrupted, opening his eyes again. He watched Alfred coolly over the crest of his cup. "No, you don't understand. But…" He sighed it. "…You won't make me change my mind. You won't talk me into altering my pattern. I do quite see that it appears ridiculous to you but after all these years… no, I can't. I really can't."

Alfred was silent for a long moment, watching Arthur with prudence.

"Arty," he said at length, "what's the matter with you? You're… you're not yourself at all."

"Oh, but I am," Arthur replied absently. "That's entirely the tragedy. I'm just not as you remember - and in the years we've spent apart, this is exactly who I've turned into. It's too much, I know, to expect you to still like me. Truth be told, _I_ don't like myself all that much anymore. I think I'm perfectly wretched - but nonetheless I won't have you worrying that I'm ill. I'm quite alright, I assure you."

"I… don't be… of _course_ I still like you!" Alfred cried. "I just… I don't know, you baffle me, I _thought_ you were acting a bit oddly before-"

"I'm most sorry to have disappointed you after all."

"I… now come on, Art, don't be like that-"

"Perhaps you should go." Arthur averted his gaze. "I don't think you're going to get much fun out of me."

"O-oh." Alfred wilted. "Arthur, no, I didn't mean… I wasn't trying to upset you or-"

"Alfred, please."

"No, look, it's fine, honestly." Alfred reached over Arthur towards the papers, snatching some up. "I'll help you out and we'll get it done in half the time and then-"

"I'm capable of doing it myself, thank you," Arthur said icily, slamming down his tea. He stood, putting out his hand for the papers - but Alfred held them out of his reach. "Alfred, give those to me this _instant_!"

"I don't see why you're making such a big deal out of all this!" Alfred argued, looking at the top sheet - it was a copy of _Titanic_ 's kitchen inventory. "Seriously, I'll do this in five minutes for you. You said potted meat, right? There's potted hare on here, is that alright? And look, there's potted crab, too-"

"You can't just pick whatever you want willy-nilly!" Arthur was practically hysterical, snatching the sheets back from Alfred and clutching them angrily to his chest. "There are _measurements_ to take into account - a-and portions and the number of people dining and what meal it is and the day and-"

"Are you _listening_ to yourself?" Alfred asked incredulously. "Why are you so… _obsessed_ over this meal thing?"

"You're shouting at me again," Arthur said tightly. "Don't, please, if it's not too much trouble-"

"Well, I don't get why you're acting so crazy!" Alfred burst out.

Arthur slapped him. There was enough force behind it that it really stung and Alfred reeled in shock, silenced. It was uncharacteristic of Arthur, who had once been a real soldier, the kind who could knock out teeth with his fist; he was terrifyingly well-trained, he could break arms and legs and necks with _out_ breaking a sweat, give him a sword and he'd have you on your knees, unarmed, in ten seconds-

So to the _slap_ , then, Alfred didn't know what to say. He put his hand to his sore cheek, blinking at Arthur.

"Now kindly get out," Arthur said icily, pointing at the door.

"Fine." Alfred fought to keep his voice level, letting his hand drop to his side. "…Guess I'll just… catch up with you later."

Arthur snorted.

"If I decide I want to waste any more of my time with you," he replied archly, looking at the wall.

"Oh, screw off, then." Finally losing his temper, Alfred stalked past him, crossing the room and heading for the door to the suite. "Have fun with your fucking menus - honestly, it's no wonder you've gotten so fat if this is all you spend your day on."

He slammed the door behind him, storming out into the hallway. He almost knocked over a tall lady in a white dress and matching hat, stumbling past her and apologising (with an inward scowl at the haughty look she shot him). _Titanic_ roared agreeably under his feet as he marched himself back to Second Class. Honestly, to hell with the whole of First Class - Alfred really couldn't be out of there fast enough…

He was feeling a bit sorry for himself beneath his fuming, so he headed back to his room to get a cold flannel for his cheek; it probably didn't need it, Arthur hadn't really hit him _that_ hard (it had stung his pride, in retrospect, more than his skin), but it took the redness out of it, at least.

"Ugh, you little bitch, Arthur," he muttered blackly, squeezing the flannel out into the sink. "I should have knocked you through the wall for that…"

He was still stunned that Arthur had slapped him. It just wasn't _like_ him. They had fought before, _really_ fought, tooth and mail and bayonet, muskets and gods-knows-what else, going at it with the intent to kill, Arthur had once flashed a _sword_ to his throat - but he had _never_ slapped him, not even when he was little and deserved it. Such patience, that bloodhungry Empire had had, it seemed; a serene and sane scourge of the seas.

But now he was ratty and obsessive and odd; and truthfully Alfred didn't think he had the endurance for him, not if he was going to be like this.

There was a reason, perhaps (Alfred thought spitefully), that Arthur was so used these days to dining alone.

* * *

Finding himself some more agreeable company in the form of two Americans and a Canadian - all Steerage - Alfred spent a few hours with them in the pool room and, after lunch (a Third Class affair, certainly pleasant enough), a stint in the gym. The three of them had boarded _Titanic_ only that morning at Queenstown, Cork, Ireland - the ship's last port of call before New York City at the other end of her voyage. They were rough-and-ready, native New Yorkers with Bronxy twangs to their accents, even the Canadian, who had lived there, he said, for a number of years; they were frank and unpretentious and Alfred thoroughly enjoyed their company. He was sorry to leave them (halfway through a card game) when Jameson sought him out and insisted that he dress for dinner and join them in First Class, for Captain Smith was to be joining them.

"How is this fair?" Alfred groused as they made their way back through _Titanic_ 's winding passageways. "This is Arthur's ship and I bet _he_ won't be there to dance attendance on the captain! Why should _I_ have to pick up his slack?"

"Apparently you are the more agreeable," Jameson replied coolly. "Now please dress appropriately and mind yourself this evening; Mr Taft is quite insistent that you represent us well and he will not be pleased to hear otherwise."

"I am _always_ on my best behaviour," Alfred said archly, though Jameson met this with only a raise of his eyebrows, which Alfred thought was a bit rude considering it had been _decades_ since Andrew Jackson had been in office. Really, it wasn't Alfred's fault if his presidents threw such raucous parties…

Alfred found himself next to Captain Smith at dinner; Arthur, naturally, was nowhere to be seen.

"Nice ship you got here," Alfred said politely, prodding suspiciously at his oysters with his knife.

"I'm very glad to hear you like it," Smith replied warmly. "It is really an honour to have you on board, Mr Jones. You will give your president a glowing report of White Star Line, I hope?"

"I'm sure I will. Everything on here is really amazing, seriously. You guys did a great job." Alfred picked up one of his oysters, turning it this way and that; it was raw and on the half-shell, glistening as it slid about. "…Uh, how… how do I eat this?"

Jameson cleared his throat on his other side; Smith simply looked surprised.

"Simply tip the shell into your mouth," he said. "You have never eaten oysters before?"

"Never saw the appeal." Alfred frowned at the oyster shell between his fingers. "I mean, it's raw, isn't it? I remember Kiku telling me about his eating raw fish and I thought it sounded pretty disgus-"

"Alfred, be quiet," Jameson hissed, elbowing him.

"Well, okay, _sorry_ ," Alfred huffed. "I've just never been compelled to slurp down raw shellfish before, is all! Anyway, aren't oysters some kind of aphrodisiac?"

A lady in a bejewelled blue dress coughed on her drink a few seats down; Jameson glared at Alfred.

"Will you _shut up_?" he bit out. "Just eat the damn things and stop making a scene."

Alfred snorted.

"I was a lot happier down in Steerage, you know," he muttered. He tossed the oyster towards his mouth in a haughty manner; it missed, slid down his cheek and fell into his lap. Thinking that everyone else at the table probably wouldn't think this as funny as he inwardly found it, he rescued the sullied oyster from his knee with as much dignity as he could manage, tossed it back onto his plate and pushed his helping away. "…Anyway, I think I'm done with those, thanks all the same."

"They're an acquired taste," Smith said calmly as Alfred wiped his face dry on his napkin. "…So, ah, you were down in Steerage today."

"Yes, sir." Alfred helped himself to some bread instead.

"And what did you think of that?"

"Pretty cushy for Third Class," Alfred said truthfully. "I was with some fellas, you know, they boarded today in Ireland, headed home for the States, and they said the meals were fantastic, better than what they ate at home!"

Smith smiled.

"Our aim is that _all_ of our passengers experience _Titanic'_ s luxury," he said. "Our Third Class facilities are the very best on the seas. Well, of course, _all_ of our facilities are, but I want even those in Steerage to have a wonderful time on board."

"Well, you seem to be doing a good job - I don't think I've seen a single glum face on the entire ship." Alfred paused in buttering his bread. "…Well, except _one_."

"You're talking about Commodore Kirkland," Smith said serenely.

Alfred was surprised.

"You've met him?" He raised his eyebrows. "Wow, I didn't think he'd even come out of his suite…"

"I know him, dear boy. I've always sailed on merchant vessels, myself, whereas he has shown little interest in them - he's Royal Navy through and through - but nonetheless we have crossed paths a few times. Nautical circles can be rather tight at times, you know."

"Well, as a warning, he's very grumpy these days," Alfred said coolly. "I'd stay away from him if I were you."

"On the contrary, I met with him yesterday afternoon whilst we were docked in Cherbourg. He entertained me in his suite and he was terribly pleasant."

"Okay, well, he's not _at all_ pleasant today, so steer clear."

Smith simply laughed.

"I will try," he said, "though I could not be so rude as to ignore him if he requested my company again. I think the poor fellow must get terribly lonely sometimes."

Alfred simply snorted.

"Not likely," he replied. "He told me to get out earlier. He can't be _that_ starved for company."

"Oh dear." Smith frowned. "How strange, he mentioned yesterday that he was greatly looking forward to spending some time with you."

Alfred shrugged.

"Guess I wore out my welcome," he said coolly.

"Well," Smith said in a low voice, "this is hardly proper dinner conversation but I would urge you not to hold a grudge against him, no matter how unkind he is. I have known him for years, as - I know - have you, Mr Jones. It should be clear to anyone that he is not himself." The captain shook his head. "No, I would say that he is not very well at all."

" _He_ said he was fine," Alfred argued. "That he had changed, yes, but the way he is now is normal for him - and if that's how he's going to be all the time, then I don't-"

"Oh, come, those are nothing but the words of a man in denial. He knows it as well as anyone - he just doesn't know what to do." Smith shot Alfred a knowing look. "I think you would be doing him a great charity, you know, if you were to let bygones be bygones and be his friend."

"I _am_ his friend!" Alfred said indignantly. "I'm just annoyed at him right now. He _slapped_ me!"

Smith seemed to think this was rather amusing, for his mouth quirked a little. He shook his head, attempting to keep a straight face.

"Well," he said, "it is possible that he might apologise. Stranger things have happened at sea."

Alfred didn't have much patience for this kind of talk, so he simply nodded. It did get him thinking, though, making him answer Jameson's later questions somewhat absent-mindedly. He was still annoyed at Arthur, of course, for being so awkward and bad-tempered; but he began to concede that perhaps _he_ had not acted in the best possible manner, either. He _had_ raised his voice even though Arthur had asked him no less than three times not to - and Alfred admitted that he had seen quite clearly that it was making Arthur agitated.

Not that that had been any call to _slap_ him, Alfred felt, but still… Perhaps it hadn't come _entirely_ out of nowhere.

He was antsy throughout the rest of the meal, eager to be away; it dragged on with no means of escape, five full courses rounded off with coffee. It was wonderful, naturally, but he grew more anxious as the hour hit nine o' clock, then ten, then half past…

Eventually, as the ladies at last departed and the men rose, too, to head to the smoking room, Alfred saw his chance and fled, disappearing into one of the corridors reserved for staff and making his way up to the First Class accommodation in a somewhat backwards fashion. On arriving at Arthur's suite, he knocked impatiently on the door and was greeted by the same serving-man once again.

"He's out on the promenade," the servant said tiredly, pointing him through. "Can I get you a drink, sir?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Alfred replied, stepping inside. "Don't worry about me. …You, uh, look like you should be in bed."

"I was just headed that way, sir."

"Then don't let me keep you, honestly. It's this way?"

"Just through the curtains, sir. I believe he has the panel open."

Alfred nodded, crossing the plush lounge of the suite to the rippling curtains with their embroidered edges; he parted them, stepping through into a narrow deck about fifty feet in length, lit with a warm glow from a few lamps scattered along the wall.

"You have _your own promenade deck_?" he said incredulously; he found Arthur as he said it, sitting in a wicker chair with his book in his lap, one leg slung over the other.

Arthur, who was more interested in his cigar than his book, looked lazily at him.

"The sheer opulence is quite disgusting, isn't it?" he agreed. His voice was a bit cold. "I was surprised myself."

Alfred went to one of the windows, looking out. He couldn't see much, only the occasional flare of white from a wave overturning. The glass beneath his hand was freezing.

"What do you want, Alfred?" Arthur asked, drawing him back sharply.

Alfred turned to him with a roll of his eyes.

"Already, Arthur?"

Arthur exhaled, smoke pluming about him like a halo.

"I'm not going to pretend that we didn't part on ugly terms earlier," he said. "I would advise that you don't either." He paused, then glanced away. "As it happens, I'm sorry I hit you. I… overreacted, I think. I hope you'll accept my apology."

Alfred smiled, his mood greatly lifted.

"Only if you'll accept mine," he replied.

But Arthur simply frowned.

"You don't know what you're apologising for," he said quietly.

"W-well, I… I didn't mean to upset you," Alfred began, "and I'm sorry I kept shouting and that I called you fat-"

"You think I'm being rather silly, all the same," Arthur sighed.

Alfred fetched another of the chairs, drawing it close to Arthur's and sitting.

"Maybe I don't understand," he said, "but I'll listen if you want to explain, Arty."

Arthur simply groaned, looking despairingly at his cigar as it smouldered in silence.

"It _is_ very silly," he said at length. "It's silly and I _let_ them do this to me, Alfred. It makes me feel so weak that I did nothing to stop it but I don't see what other options I had. I'm a _nation_ , I couldn't just… just run away, I wouldn't have gotten fifty feet…"

Alfred frowned.

"I… I'm not sure I know what you're talking about…"

"Oh, the weight, the… obsessive behaviour, the menus, _everything_!" Arthur pressed his palm to his forehead. "After Victoria died, you know, her son Edward became king and he wasn't interested much in the Empire I built for his mother, at least not in expanding it, and _I_ … well, I used to look after it for her, I used to _defend_ it for her, but Edward, he seemed to think I'd be put to better use entertaining diplomats and the like, oh, he hadn't _half_ her heart… And I've not been allowed on any battleships since 1901, not even _Dreadnought_ , I haven't been allowed to… to sail or go to any of the colonies, frankly I haven't even been allowed to leave the _country_ , I've just been holed up in palaces and parliament signing my name to things and having humans to tea! I've barely even seen any other nations since 1901 - this is the first I've seen you and otherwise it's just been Francis a few times, Matthew even fewer and Ludwig once. That's _it_!"

He gave an impatient, shaky sigh, looking up at Alfred desperately.

"And I… this thing with the menus is just… well, I haven't been allowed to do _anything_ , they took all my responsibility from me and I haven't made a real decision in years - and to stop me going mad, they started letting me at least decide what I was going to eat that day and it's just… escalated, I suppose. It's the only thing I have any control over anymore and I've become so invested in it, I've made it so _precise_ and I can't eat _anywhere_ now, not unless I'm able to devise the menu myself. I wish I wasn't like this, Alfred, things like this never used to matter to me, when you're at sea for months on a rocky galleon you eat whatever you can get your bleeding hands on - but now I _have_ to have all the exact numbers and weights of the ingredients so I can tally it all up and calculate it and I just… I've _tried_ to stop, I really have, but I just _can't_."

He was out of his seat now, pacing, the smoke from his cigar wisping after him like a little ghost.

"And the weight, well, I suppose it was inevitable - because you're right, it _is_ all I do with my day, it's pathetic, I know, but I can't be still otherwise. And I used to get so bored and irritable and the servants would see me pacing up and down - like this, exactly like this! - like some sort of caged animal and they placated me in the same way you would a tiger in a zoo, I suppose. They'd bring me tea and cake or… or sandwiches or something, _anything_ , just to make me sit still and I didn't have anything _better_ to do, did I? It curbed the boredom for ten minutes or so and then that's just escalated, too, and now I eat just _because_ I'm bored. I'm not even hungry, how _could_ I be at eleven o' clock in the morning if I only finish breakfast at half past ten? But the post used to come in at eleven and then suddenly I didn't _get_ any post anymore aside from the odd letter from you and I didn't have anything to do. Why _not_ a slice of Madeira, then, if no-one can be bothered to consult me any longer?"

He threw himself back into his chair, hunching over his cigar for a long moment. Alfred watched him guardedly, not sure what to say.

"I only agreed to the _Titanic_ ticket because they said they'd allow me to devise my own menus," Arthur went on bitterly. "Jacobs has been bringing me the inventory and noting down the exact measurements used for me so I can tally it all up. They'll let me do it in the British Embassy, too, when I get to the States - and on _Olympic_ on the way back. It was my only prerequisite. I'd have been happy with a Steerage ticket if they'd agreed to that - they were more than generous, of course, but this is… this is the first time I've left Britain since 1901. I've turned down other state visits and the like because… well, I can't very well turn up at someone's house and demand that I be allowed to decide what we're eating, can I? I've been trapped by it, which is maybe what they _wanted_ , and I… well, _look at me_! I'm not even a _grain_ of what I used to be!"

Alfred did look at him, chewing thoughtfully at his lip.

"You look alright to me," he said softly.

Arthur simply snorted.

"It's not just the weight," he said acidly. "Frankly I've been rather lucky - I haven't really put on all that much considering I've spent the past eleven years doing absolutely nothing but eating between eating. No, it's the mentality, too, I can't go anywhere without the assurance that I'll have control over my meals and… well, my god, there's a war coming, I can see it a mile away-"

"There isn't-"

"There _is_ , Alfred!" Arthur swiped his cigar threateningly at him. "You can stay out of it if you'd like - but it's coming. Ludwig practically tripped over himself to stockpile knock-offs of my _Dreadnought_ and everybody else wasn't far behind him and that besides, Victoria's bleeding grandson, Wilhelm, he's always wanted my Navy and my Empire, or at least one like it, and what the hell do you think _he'd_ do with it?" He coughed impatiently. "Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, when it _does_ come, what the hell kind of use am _I_ going to be like this? I'm out of shape, I haven't fought for years, I spend my day writing menus and I can't function without a slice of cake every other half hour. I won't be any use to _anyone_."

"You could help from the War Office?" Alfred suggested tentatively. "There'd be plenty of cake there."

"No, we're not like that," Arthur replied disgustedly. "You know we're not. We're not happy unless we're in the thick of it. Besides, why should I send my men out to their deaths while I stay behind in comfort? I should be at their side, at least. It isn't fair otherwise."

"Well, then, I guess you're in a dilemma," Alfred said impatiently. "Not happy without cake, not happy without killing someone… What to do, huh?" He got up, stretching. "Anyway, it's late, so…"

"Of course." Arthur waved his hand lazily, dismissively, at him. "Goodnight, Alfred."

"Goodnight." Alfred gave a little nod and dipped back through the curtain, leaving Arthur on the promenade. He had run out of patience again, just wanting to get away from him - he had utterly no clue what the _hell_ he was supposed to say to him.

He didn't feel guilty until he got back to his own room in Second Class and shut the door behind him. It was just him, then, and the rumble of _Titanic_ 's innards far beneath his feet; and in that empty space he began to feel sorry for Arthur and sorry that he'd lost patience with him so quickly. It was clear now, even to him, that Arthur really wasn't… well, he was just desperately unhappy, if nothing else, and despairing that he'd become so fixated, so dependent, on the one tiny bit of freedom his government had left him with. It was serious, Alfred thought grimly, when the _British Empire_ didn't think he was going to be much good in a war situation…

He gathered his pyjamas and toothbrush and went back to First Class with them bundled under his dinner jacket in an attempt to disguise his intentions (which might be sorely misread, he feared). When he knocked this time, Arthur himself answered the door; he looked surprised to see him, making a swift attempt to hide the pear he'd been eating behind his back.

"Yes?" he asked, frowning at Alfred. "What now?"

"Are you eating again?" Alfred asked, derailed.

Arthur scowled at him.

"I'm always eating," he said flatly. "I believe I just regaled you with the entire sad tale of how it came to _be_ that I'm always eating." He didn't seem to think there was much point in hiding the pear any longer, however, and took another bite out of it. "Now _you_ answer _my_ question, please."

"I want to sleep with you," Alfred said, holding out his toothbrush.

Arthur blinked before his expression promptly flatlined.

"No," he said; and he pushed the door to slam it shut right in Alfred's face-

As he had last night, Alfred put his foot in the crack and stopped it, elbowing his way into the suite before Arthur could shove him out.

"N-now this is really… just _unbelievable_!" Arthur sputtered crossly, pointing at the door. "I said no! Go away at once!"

"Not like _that_ ," Alfred said with a roll of his eyes. "I mean I just want to sleep in the same bed as you."

"Why, pray tell?" Arthur asked tersely.

"I'm scared."

"Of what?"

"Ghosts."

"Oh, give over. There are no ghosts on _Titanic_. She's brand new!"

"The _seas_ are haunted!" Alfred protested vehemently. "What about ghosts of pirates just sailing about in their ghost ships, huh? They'd be on board before you even knew it!"

"You're being perfectly ridiculous."

"Don't be mean, Arthur! Let me sleep in here with you."

Arthur groaned.

"You're _much_ too old for this," he said coolly. "But since you're clearly not going to give me any peace, I suppose you'd better come along."

"Thanks! It's okay, I brought my own jammies so you don't have to lend me any!"

"You truly think of everything." Arthur simply shook his head, beckoning.

Alfred trotted after him to the bedroom, pleased with himself; he watched as Arthur tossed the pear stalk into the wastebasket with a high, effortless shot before opening the bedroom door, waving him in.

Arthur's room was jaw-dropping. Alfred's own, of course, was certainly very comfortable and had all the assets, a nice bed and a desk and a chair and a sink with a mirror and everything but Arthur's was just… _lavish_ didn't even _begin_ to describe it. The bed was four-poster with embroidered hangings and there was a fireplace in here as _well_ as in the drawing room and the walls were lined with paintings and the carpet was as thick as fur.

"Would you _really_ have been happy in Steerage?" Alfred asked sceptically, glancing at him.

"Oh, don't me wrong, I enjoy comfort," Arthur replied idly, "but I'm sure Steerage is like a king's quarters compared to some of the conditions I've lived in. One of the worst privateer ships I've ever been on was swarming with rats - and I mean actually _swarming_. Someone had to be on watch all night to shoot the bastards when they started trying to eat the sleeping men."

Alfred shuddered.

"That's disgusting."

"Yes. Yes, it is. Not to mention the little fuckers ate the entire biscuit supply, weevils and all."

"W-well, then, I guess… you can at least say that _Titanic_ is a better experience than _that_ , right?"

Arthur laughed.

"Oh lord, no," he replied, heading towards the bathroom. "I enjoyed every moment of it. I had the highest score on the ship."

"…For what?"

"Why, blowing rats' brains out, of course!"

Alfred tried not to think about weevil-riddled biscuits (a favourite topic of Francis' too, now that he recalled) and rats gnawing at the faces of sleeping men (only to blown to smithereens) as he got ready for bed; he was glad to get under the covers, though, drawing his feet right up. Arthur soon joined him, not looking much of a hardened rat-blasting privateer in his silk paisley pyjamas - though that, Alfred had always felt, was part of his charm. For all the bloodied whims which fell from his tongue, Alfred had never been afraid of him and, as he had when he was small, he cuddled up to him now, resting his head against his shoulder.

"You're nice and soft now, at least," he said gleefully. "You used to be pretty bony and uncomfortable before."

"Shut up," Arthur replied huffily. "Honestly, you can be rather rude when it pleases you." He reached over and switched out at the light, settling; his hand rested at the back of Alfred's neck, his thumb rubbing gently at the downy hair there. "…You weren't _really_ scared of ghosts, were you, Alfred?"

"No," Alfred admitted. He hesitated. "…It's just that you… really looked like you needed a cuddle."

"God, you're really quite the disgusting sap, aren't you?" Arthur sighed; but he rubbed fondly at Alfred's scalp. "Perhaps I do, though. Just a small one."

"Well, I figured, since we didn't end up spending the day together like we planned, this… was sort of the next best thing."

"We'll spend the day together tomorrow, I promise," Arthur said gently. "I'll be on my very best behaviour."

"Sounds good." Alfred snuggled happily against him and there was contented silence between them; though _Titanic_ roared as usual. "…She sure is loud, isn't she?"

"Oh, that's the ghosts, darling," Arthur said sleepily, shifting. "They're making a racket down in the boiler rooms."

Alfred stiffened.

"You said there _were_ no ghosts on _Titanic_!" he hissed, scandalised. "You said, _you said_!"

"Obviously I was lying to get you to go away. Not that it worked."

Alfred could practically _see_ Arthur's smirk in the pitch blackness but he huddled closer nonetheless, clamping onto Arthur's arm.

"How can there be ghosts if she's so new?" he demanded. "…It's not _really_ pirate ghosts, is it?"

"Quite a number of men died building her, Alfred. It's to be expected. They're probably rattling around down there, quite enjoying themselves. They get a free ride, after all." Arthur put his arm around Alfred properly, pulling him close. "It's alright, they're perfectly friendly - and they won't be coming up here. They're happy where they are."

Alfred pulled the covers over his head, curling right up.

"I wish you hadn't told me that just before I sleep!" he moaned. He jabbed Arthur in the ribs. "After I came to give you a cuddle out of the goodness of my heart, too!"

"Oh goodness," Arthur muttered tiredly, "so much fuss. Go to sleep."

"You _know_ I'm scared of ghosts!" Alfred whined.

"Well," Arthur sighed, stroking Alfred's hair, "you ought to be comforted that you can hear so much noise, whether it's her ghosts or just her massive engines. It's when she goes quiet, my boy, that you need to worry."

* * *

****


	4. Friday April 12th, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They don't get much further than the library~

Friday April 12th, 1912

Alfred surfaced with mussed hair the next morning, peeking out from under the heavy covers of Arthur's First Class four-poster. Arthur was sitting up in bed next to him, sipping tea from a dainty gold-rimmed teacup with the White Star logo on it; he had his reading glasses on and was poring over the familiar inventory sheet.

"Morning," Alfred greeted him with a yawn.

"Good morning," Arthur replied absently, not looking up. "Did you sleep well?"

"Like a rock after I got too tired to worry about the freaking _ghosts_ ," Alfred groused.

"I know, I'm an utter bastard." Arthur's tone was light and careless. "Are you breakfasting with me?"

"Yeah, I'm staying with you all day."

"How delightful."

"Sarcasm?"

"Just a smidgeon." Arthur grinned at him. "No, really, the company will be nice. Don't storm out on me this time."

"Arty, you smacked me in the face."

"I know - and I apologised. Today is a clean slate, so… let's _both_ try and be good, alright?"

"I'm always good," Alfred huffed, sitting up and resting his chin on Arthur's shoulder.

"You most certainly are not, you little imp." Arthur pointed idly to the inventory. "What do you say to smokies for breakfast?"

"Two questions," Alfred replied, squinting at the sheet. "One: can you pass me my glasses? I can't read the damn thing."

Arthur took them from the nightstand, passing them across.

"Thanks," Alfred said, slipping them on. He looked at the inventory again. "…And two: what the hell is a smoky?"

Arthur rolled his jade eyes.

"Honestly, Alfred, I used to cook them for you all the time when you were small," he said frostily. "It's a Scottish dish; smoked haddock swimming in melted butter, seasoned with pepper-"

"That sounds amazing," Alfred interrupted, his stomach growling. "Yeah, let's have them."

"I told you, you've had them before," Arthur said, annoyed. "I used to cook them for you after I brought them over to the colonies in barrels of salt."

Alfred snorted.

"More like you cremated them," he replied, glancing over the inventory himself. "Hey, let's have some of that boiled hominy, I had that yesterday with maple syrup and it was really good… Ooh, and buckwheat cakes! Some of them, too!"

Arthur simply smiled, shaking his head.

"This is going to be quite an interesting spread," he said. "Very well - and some fresh fruit?"

"Sounds great. Coffee, too, don't forget!" Alfred shucked the covers and clambered over Arthur to get out of bed. "I call first on the bathroom!"

"Be my guest." Arthur rose too, padding to the writing desk and taking up a sheet of _RMS Titanic_ stationary. "I'll write this up and call for Mr Jacobs. We'll breakfast at about nine."

"Great, that'll give me time to stash all the White Star towels I'm planning on stealing."

Arthur shook his head as he sat down.

"And pocketing the silverware, I expect?"

"Thought I'd leave that to you," Alfred called from the bathroom. "Ain't that about right, matey?"

"I wasn't a pirate, Alfred. I was a privateer."

"Same thing!"

"Not according to maritime law," Arthur said cheerfully. "Besides, I don't think there's a damn thing on this flouncing excuse for a ship even worth stealing."

"I heard someone down in Steerage say some rich guy snuck an Egyptian mummy on board. Apparently it's cursed and he had to hide it under his car to get it on. How about that? You want a cursed mummy?"

"Oh, please, I have more of those than Gupta."

"Yeah, because you _stole_ them off him!" Alfred leaned out of the bathroom, jabbing a foamy razor in Arthur's direction. "So _ha_ , case in point."

Arthur merely glanced over his shoulder at him.

"Oh, my, how very well played," he said flatly. "I will absolutely be throwing you overboard later."

Alfred stuck out his tongue.

"I'd like to see you try, Arty," he laughed. "Besides, I reckon you might get pulled up over throwing another passenger overboard - especially one as important as me."

"Not as you'd think," Arthur replied sweetly, "because _Titanic_ happens to be _my_ ship."

Alfred blinked.

"She is _not_!" he said incredulously.

"She is. She was a present. She was built in one of my cities, she was launched from one of my cities and she's registered at one of my cities - why, she even has the name of that last one, Liverpool, on her stern."

"But you don't _like_ her!"

"I know - but she's mine all the same." Arthur grinned at Alfred. "So I can throw people overboard whenever I like, love."

* * *

"But I haven't shown you around even _half_ of the ship!" Alfred protested. "This is the first time you've even been out of your suite, right? Come on, there's so much more to see!"

"Alfred," Arthur replied patiently, "I've already had the grand tour - quite in the hopes of impressing me, you see. I was also paraded ceremoniously around _Olympic_ last year. I really do feel that I've seen all that I need to see of _both_ primped and pretty sisters."

"But… but there's a gym-"

"Do I _look_ like I spend time in a gym?"

"How about the Turkish baths?"

"I wasn't a fan of swanning around with no clothes on in front of other people even _before_ my waist was nearing forty inches."

"If you're so bothered about your waist being forty inches, let's go to the gym!" Alfred argued. "Or the swimming pool-"

"It's _almost_ forty inches," Arthur corrected icily. "Not quite, thank god."

"It could be back to thirty-two by the time we cruise past Lady Liberty if we hit the gym now."

"Don't be absurd." Arthur reached up, grasping a large leather-bound book and taking it carefully from the shelf. "I'm quite happy here."

"Of all places!" Alfred threw out his arms, gesturing to the library in a fit of disbelief. "Don't get me wrong, this is an amazing library - but you have a whole _trunk_ full of books in your room! I saw it next to your bed!"

"I didn't bring my atlases." Arthur sailed past him, taking the massive book over to one of the tables beside the window; the bright light flashed over the gold on the spine and the gorgeous embroidery on Arthur's cherry-coloured silk waistcoat. "Come and look; you might learn something."

Shoving his hands into his pockets, Alfred groaned and shuffled over, his braces swinging merrily.

"I can't believe we only got as far as the library," he muttered.

"I'm quite stunned that you're surprised," Arthur replied, opening the book and flipping through the gold-edged pages of maps until he came to a large spread of the Atlantic Ocean; their respective lands peeked at either side of the pages, the blue expanse bleached between them. "Now, we passed First Officer Murdoch on the way down here and I overheard him say that we are currently travelling at twenty knots. Having left Queenstown at 1.30pm yesterday and averaging between eighteen and twenty-one knots at an ever-increasing rate since then, we are…" He trailed off, calculating the maths as he looked at the map. Alfred watched his brow furrow with interest. "We're here." Arthur pointed suddenly at the map, his fingertip pressing sharply against a space of blue quite like the rest of the map.

Alfred grinned.

"Impressive," he said, "but you can't prove it."

"No, you're right. You'll just have to take my word for it." Arthur smirked at him. "I've always been frightfully good at this sort of mathematics. It's what gave me an edge over Antonio back when I spent the majority of my time robbing him."

Alfred pulled a face.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you love math," he said disgustedly. "You're so strange. I used to _hate_ when you made me sit down and learn how to do it - especially when it was a nice day outside and all I wanted to do was go and play in the mud."

"Hm." Arthur's thick eyebrows arched amusedly. "I don't think it did you much good, all the same."

Alfred laughed good-naturedly.

"Probably not. I couldn't do what you just did."

He had meant it as a compliment, of course; but Arthur gave a sudden sigh, pressing a hand to his face.

"No," he said in a low, melancholy voice. "…You know, I don't know if it's done _me_ much good in the long run, either. I've always been so obsessive over numbers, I think that bloody Domesday Book might have been the start of it, tallying everything up so precisely…"

He reached for the atlas again, flipping back a few pages to push open a spread of the entire globe. Well over a third of it was coloured red to match the tiny jagged contours of Great Britain.

"Everything," he said, "is about numbers - how much gold, how much land, how many ships, how many citizens… It was my greatest pleasure back then, too - making lists of all of my vast numbers to present to Elizabeth or Victoria, such an easy way to prove myself to them… Queens are always harder to win over, you know, but I got good at it. The more I stole, the more I had, the more they loved me." He put his hands heavily on the map of the British Empire, his pale fingertips digging into the pages, beginning to pull them up into the curves of his palms - and the countries and seas warped and crumpled at his command. "Oh, god, Alfred, I'm _so greedy_ but I can't _help_ it, it's much too deeply-rooted… I suppose it's no wonder numbers eventually got the better of me, eh?"

Alfred didn't know what to say. He put his chin on Arthur's shoulder and exhaled. Arthur tilted his head, leaning his skull against Alfred's.

"It's alright," he said quietly. "You oughtn't feel guilty. I don't expect you to fix anything, I just… it's nice to have someone to talk to about it. I don't know how obvious it's been but… I haven't ever admitted it to anyone." He tipped his head back, their gold hair tangling. "It's funny, isn't it? So much of the globe is mine and yet… I don't have anywhere left to run."

"Yeah, you do." Alfred reached around him, putting his hands to the covers of the atlas; he lifted it, tilting it so the pages slid one over the other until-

"I might have known you'd suggest that," Arthur sighed, running his fingers along the east coast of the United States of America.

"It's simple enough, right?" Alfred grinned in Arthur's ear. "And stop feeling me up."

Arthur snorted, taking his hand back from the map nonetheless. Alfred caught it, wrapping his fingers around Arthur's palm. It was strange, he thought, that Arthur had put on weight everywhere else (even a touch of roundness to his face, the beginnings of what, if he continued as he was, would undoubtedly become a double-chin); but his hands were as sharp and slender as they had always been. There was a scar over his left palm where the bottle had broken in 1864 and an indent on his right from writing and firing guns.

"It's simple," Alfred said again. "We vanish in New York. We disappear into the wild expanse of my crazy endless lands. I have houses everywhere - some of 'em aren't much more than huts but I know you can hack it, there'll be plenty of rats for you to shoot at - and we can keep moving, keep going, keep disappearing, until we're ready to reveal ourselves again. No-one will find us, I promise - _and_ I'll let you plan all our meals."

"That sounds wonderful," Arthur sighed, "and impossible."

"Why is it impossible?"

"Because… because we can't just… _disappear_ -"

"Watch me." Alfred linked their fingers together, using his free hand to trace a winding line across the map of his country, east coast to west. "Past Pennsylvania it starts getting _much_ harder to trace people."

"I didn't mean that," Arthur said gently. "I meant that… that we _oughtn't_. We're _nations_ , we can't just bugger off whenever we feel like it - if that was the case, I'd have done it by now-"

"We can," Alfred interrupted, "and I don't know why you haven't. Do you really think they could _stop_ you, Arthur?"

"Oh, my," Arthur said dryly, "hence comes the revolutionary."

Alfred frowned.

"Arty, you _let_ them do this to you - you admitted it yourself. If you… if you ever want to be _you_ again, then you have to fight back, you have to disobey, you have to… to just _run_ and-"

"Alfred, please don't take this the wrong way, but…" Arthur pulled himself out of his grasp, turning to him. "You're still a child. I know you don't understand. I couldn't expect you to."

Alfred's eyes frosted over.

"I know _all about_ getting out from beneath the boot of your government," he said coldly. "…I never thought _you'd_ be the one needing the lesson, though."

"I don't." Arthur gently pushed Alfred aside, taking up the atlas and closing it. "Please, I know… you're only trying to help and I appreciate it, Alfred, I truly do but… but we're not humans, we're not mortals - we're important to the lands that bear our blood, we have duties and responsibilities and we can't just _leave_ whenever we feel like it." He took the atlas back to the shelf, reaching up to slide it back in.

"Then what will you do, Arthur?" Alfred asked quietly, leaning his hip against the edge of the table. He folded his arms, looking at Arthur very intently. "Live like this for the rest of your very long immortal life? Keep eating until you can't walk?"

Arthur shrugged.

"I suppose being so overweight as to be bedridden wouldn't be so bad. I'd have plenty of time to read, at least."

Alfred straightened angrily.

"You're not taking this seriously!" he burst out.

Arthur pressed his fingertips to his forehead.

"Don't shout at me," he said tightly. "And yes, of course I'm not taking it seriously. If I took it seriously I'd throw myself into a black fit of depression, realising that I've worn out my glory and I have nothing left to live for. Personally I think it's very _wise_ to not take the notion that all I've got to look forward to now is an admittedly vast array of cakes very seriously, wouldn't you agree?"

"Arthur-"

" _Alfred_. Listen to me." Arthur put out his arms, gesturing (it seemed) to _Titanic_ herself. "This is my world. Everything of my society, my structure, my culture, my literature, my history… It's all on this ship, this grand, _grandest_ ship which was given to me as a present by White Star Line. I conquered the seas so these men could set such wonder to sail - and now, as we speak, she glides across open deep waters thousands of miles wide like a shooting star. As I heard spoken of her sister, _Olympic_ , by night she looks like a string of pearls, bright upon a black sea. Two days ago, she made the headlines of just about every newspaper in the world, I shouldn't wonder, when she sailed from Southampton. This is it, Alfred - this is everything I have, crammed down and condensed into _this_ , the world's largest and most magnificent luxury liner. My battles, my blood, my scars, my victories, my Empire - and my heroic men, too, my Drake and my Nelson and my Wellington, my queens, my Elizabeth and my Victoria, my _Victory_ and my _Warrior_ and my beautiful _Dreadnought_ … They are worth nothing. _Titanic_ has eclipsed them all. All eyes are on her because she is what the world has become." He gave a bitter little laugh. "I do not conquer with swords and guns any longer, Alfred. I conquer with private promenades and fake French restaurants, with grand staircases and Turkish baths and four funnels, one of which is fake and only for fucking show. _Titanic_ is my newest queen."

Alfred said nothing, simply watching him as he went back to the window.

"No," Arthur sighed, "disappearing into the thicket of New York would never save me. The world I so despise would still be waiting for me when I returned."

"Then-"

"Oh, I suppose it's too much to ask for, isn't it?" Arthur went on lightly, not looking at him. "To wish that _Titanic_ would sink, disappear completely beneath the waves of an ocean she has no right to be on - and take the rest of 1912 with her."

* * *

"Here."

Alfred leaned over and lit Arthur's cigarette for him with a flash of his lighter; then he lit his own, letting it smoulder as he glanced sidelong at his companion. They were both leaning at the rail on A Deck, arms folded on glossed wood, watching the sky and sea go by as _Titanic_ plunged ever onwards towards America's promised shores.

"Penny for your thoughts," Alfred pressed, nudging Arthur with his shoulder. He inhaled on his cigarette and bit down on it as he blew out, the smoke billowing away on the Atlantic air.

"My thoughts aren't that cheap."

"A dollar, then."

"Hardly."

" _Five_ dollars!" Alfred laughed. "Come on, that's _more_ than fair!"

Arthur grinned at him.

"Yes, I suppose it is - but I'm afraid you'll be disappointed. I'm not really thinking anything at all."

"Liar."

"No, it's true," Arthur said gently, tapping off his ash. "I was just looking at the sea. … _Remembering_ more than thinking, I suppose."

"Well, what were you remembering?"

"Oh, the old colonial ships, you know. Back then, when you were still mine. I used to sail over to New York and Boston on those magnificent old ships with sails and rigging; they were hard bleeding work, I used to have rope-burn on my hands for weeks at a time after a voyage, but I loved them. They used to be the masters of these very same waters, once."

"They took a hell of a lot longer than a week to make the journey, though," Alfred replied. "I'd get a letter from you saying you were coming over and I wouldn't see you until about two months later."

"Well, they didn't have the engines that ships do now," Arthur retorted.

"Or the safety features," Alfred chirped. "I read in the paper about _Titanic_ , right, that her design makes her pretty much _unsinkable_."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Bollocks," he said. "I very much doubt you'd catch Mr Andrews saying anything like that. He would never be so… so arrogant or stupid. Journalists, darling, can be frightfully weak-minded in their quest to make every sensational."

Alfred smiled in amusement.

"You don't reckon she's unsinkable?"

"No ship is unsinkable - humans have yet to gain mastery over basic physics, you see."

Alfred elbowed him with a cheerful grin.

"My airplanes sure bend physics," he said gleefully.

"They most certainly do not," Arthur said crossly. "Aviation, too, is grounded - if you'll pardon the expression - in physics. You still have gravity working against you, do you not?"

"Oh, sure, I know all about _that_. I'm not just a pretty face, you know. But with ships, whether it's _Titanic_ or just a measly little raft, you already have half the work done for you."

Arthur blinked, looking at him sharply.

"I beg your pardon?" He sounded really quite insulted. "N-now I might not be _Titanic_ 's greatest fan, as you well know, but it took two thousand men to build her, Alfred, and I assure you that the work was not easy."

Alfred laughed.

"But the _water_ ," he said, pointing down to the bronzing sea fare beneath them. "The water was already there! Waaaaay back, when people first invented boats, I guess it was just common sense. Get a piece of wood, right, and sit on it - and hey, if it floats, start rowing and hope for the best! But planes, that didn't just _happen_. That was hard work right from the start, let me tell you - getting the thing in the air and making it stay there."

Arthur scoffed and looked away, going back to his cigarette.

"You've no appreciation for sailing," he said coolly. "Which is about right for the majority of people on this ship, I shouldn't wonder."

"Well, if you're that concerned about it," Alfred drawled, "I reckon there's still time for you to scrape together nightly lectures in the smoking room on why _Dreadnought_ is far superior to _Titanic_ \- with a couple of demonstrations of knots on the side."

"Now there's a thought," Arthur conceded, his jade eyes flashing towards Alfred. "…Thought I doubt I'd get much of an audience. Maybe Thomas Andrews, I suppose, or perhaps Ismay."

"I'd come."

"I should bloody well hope so, given that it was _your_ idea."

Alfred smiled and shifted, nudging a little closer. He walked his fingers across the rail, slipping his hand on top of Arthur's. Arthur met his eyes, his expression wary.

"I like listening to your voice," Alfred said, "when you're talking about something you love, whether it's your memories or your battleships or your books. I like seeing your eyes, too, and your hands and the way you move them, everything is so vivid and wonderful when you say it… You're a storyteller, Arthur, not a mathematician." He leaned in close. " _That's_ why I would come."

Arthur smiled.

"You've never outgrown my stories, have you?"

"I never will," Alfred assured him.

"Hm." Arthur breathed out a cloud of smoke, gazing through it to the sea. His hand was quite still beneath Alfred's.

"Arthur," Alfred said.

"Yes?"

"…Somehow, you've made something which should be easy very difficult for me. I-I mean, it's not as though… we haven't _done_ it before, right, but I just…" Alfred sighed, clutching tighter at Arthur's hand. "I-I keep losing my nerve and I don't know why." He frowned suddenly. "It's not the weight, though, honestly! It's just-"

"It's the weight for me," Arthur said absently, making Alfred blink.

"I… wh-what?"

"I know what you want to ask," Arthur said patiently. "You want to ask if you can kiss me - which is a surprising request, I hope you won't mind me saying. You've never _asked_ before."

"Well, I guess I don't want another slap in the face, huh?"

"Heh." Arthur gave him an affectionate nudge. "…Still, I'd honestly rather you didn't."

"Why?" Alfred asked, taking Arthur's arm. "We… we've slept together before, it's not as though-"

"That doesn't mean that I'm always open for business, so to speak," Arthur cut in coolly. He finished his cigarette and threw the stub into the crashing waters far below, not looking at Alfred.

"Well, yeah, I know that," Alfred said desperately. "I didn't mean-"

"I don't think you know _what_ you mean, Alfred." Arthur patted him at the elbow.

"Don't condescend me!" Alfred said crossly, pulling his arm back. "I'm not some randy teenager trying to get my first screw out in the apple field, alright? I really… I want-"

"Stop it," Arthur said firmly, looking at him again. "I appreciate your youthful enthusiasm and I appreciate your… ah, insistent short-sightedness-"

"I'm _wearing_ my glasses, if you hadn't noticed."

"It was a metaphor, of sorts."

" _Well_!" Alfred folded his arms across the rail again; he gave his cigarette a kiss goodbye and sent it spiralling overboard with an angry flick of his wrist. "God damn, I wish you wouldn't think of me as so shallow. I don't care one little bit about the weight you've put on, okay? Not one _bit_! You're still… _you_ , Arthur."

"Oh, but I'm not," Arthur sighed. " _I'm not_. I don't think you're shallow, Alfred, I just… I don't know. I can't even bring myself to be _flattered_ by your earnest intentions." He rubbed frustratedly at his forehead. "…It's really quite the shell I've retreated into."

"I bet I could pry you out of it," Alfred said, his mouth very close to Arthur's ear.

"Well, please don't equate that with prying me out of my clothing," Arthur replied shortly, pulling away. He went into his pocket for his watch, flipping it open; the chain glittered in the orange light, swinging gently. "It's almost time for dinner, anyway. Come along, we should go and dress."

"Oh, you go on ahead," Alfred said defeatedly, waving him off. "My cabin is closer and it only takes me half the time. I'll see you at eight."

"Alright." Arthur slipped his watch back into his waistcoat pocket. "And see that you're not late, please."

"Tch, what's a few minutes between two immortal beings such as us?" Alfred asked lazily.

Arthur, of course, was not amused by this.

"I mean it," he said, his voice terse, his fingers knotting together distractedly as his nerves began to visibly fray. "You simply _must_ be on time or you'll throw everything off-schedule and-"

"I'll be there, I'll be there," Alfred interrupted impatiently. "Don't get your panties in such a knot. Go on, off you go." He blew Arthur a sarcastic kiss.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes and started away; then paused, turning to Alfred with a strangely sad look on his face. His hair bloomed with an amber glow from the setting sun and his eyes looked very dark.

"I'm sorry, Alfred," he said softly. "I can't _begin_ to tell you how much I appreciate your concern and your gold-hearted efforts - but I'm afraid you won't change me that easily, not when I'm fast going the same way as the world."

* * *

**The cursed Egyptian mummy:** This was a rumour which began to circulate soon after the sinking of the _Titanic_ \- apparently there was an unlucky mummy which caused death and destruction to pretty much anyone who went near it on board, known as the Princess of Amen-Ran (though some sources say Priestess of Amen-Ra). There is a lot of contention about this rumour - some sources say it belonged to William T. Stead, an English journalist and spiritualist travelling on the _Titanic_ to New York, who had to sneak it onto the ship underneath his car. Other sources do not mention Stead's ownership of the mummy itself, but rather that he told a story about a cursed mummy to other passengers the night before _Titanic_ sank. Either way, there is no actual evidence that this mummy was ever on board the ship, though the rumour has persisted for one hundred years. Stead himself was interesting - he wrote two pieces for newspapers about ships which sank a while before his own death on the _Titanic_ ; one featuring a ship which crashes into another, with a large loss of life caused by an inadequate sufficiency of lifeboats, and another in which the survivors of an ocean liner, the _Majestic_ , are picked up after the grand ship hits an iceberg.

_**Titanic**_ **'s "fake" funnel:** Indeed, one of _Titanic_ 's (and _Olympic'_ s/ _Britannic_ 's) iconic four funnels was fake. The last one, nearest the stern, was only for show. The _Olympic_ -class, which included all three sisters, was the first to use the design; the previous largest liner in White Star's repertoire, _RMS Baltic_ , one of the 'Big Four' (including her sisters _Celtic_ , _Cedric_ and _Adriatic_ ) "only" had two (though they were both real).

That iceberg is coming ever closer… Arthur, you should be more careful what you wish for~


	5. Saturday April 13th, 1912

Saturday April 13th, 1912

"I'm going to show you something today," Alfred said firmly, spreading jam thickly over his bread.

Arthur, halfway through pouring the tea, looked up briefly. His green eyes flickered interestedly but his face remained perfectly stoic.

"Is that so?" he asked lightly. "…The library really _wasn't_ enough for you yesterday, was it?"

"This isn't about me," Alfred replied. "I'm not the one holed up in my room."

"Well, no, you're holed up in _my_ room. Really, Ismay needn't have bothered giving you a cabin at all. I should have just packed you with my things."

"Ha ha," Alfred said coolly. "You're welcome for the enduring company."

Arthur smiled a little too graciously at him.

"You're an absolute darling," he said sweetly. He put down the teapot and passed Alfred's dainty White Star Line teacup towards him. "Lemon?"

"Nah, I'll just take a tonne of sugar in mine."

Alfred shielded his eyes as he took up the sugar jar; they were having breakfast on the private promenade of Arthur's stunning suite and the morning light blazed brilliantly through the long windows as _Titanic_ sailed towards the sun. The cutlery sang like bells against the porcelain of plates and cups - the necessary machinery of the meal. Alfred stirred in his sugar and Arthur watched him through his eyelashes.

"And what, pray tell, is it that you're going to show me?" he asked at length, seeming to attempt to keep his voice from rising too much in curiosity.

Alfred grinned.

"It's a surprise," he replied. "But you'll be impressed. I reckon it might change your mind about your new girl here."

"Oh, please." Arthur stabbed at his Eggs Benedict moodily. "I told you, I've already _been_ forcibly escorted around both _Titanic_ and _Olympic_. I'm much happier in here with my menus and my books."

"Art." Alfred pushed up his glasses and looked at him. "Trust me on this. Don't forget I know how your crooked little mind works."

Arthur sighed, reaching for the pepper and giving his eggs a thorough dousing.

"Alright, alright," he muttered. "But it'll have to be after lunch. I still have to do my lunch menu and my breakfast calculations and-"

"Yes, of course," Alfred cut in calmly. He gave a patient smile - which Arthur, on seeing it, returned with an air of relief. "Of course it'll be after lunch."

* * *

"It's a good thing you're wearing black, I reckon." Alfred skipped ahead to open the door. "It's a bit grubby down here."

"I can't believe I agreed to this," Arthur sighed, giving his waistcoat - black velvet with flourishes of silver thread and scarlet roses - a self-conscious brush down at Alfred's words.

"It's a _surprise_ ," Alfred insisted.

"Not much of one," Arthur said. "I know exactly where we're going. I have copies of _Titanic'_ s plans in my suite, you know - and, as before, I've already _been_ -"

"Frogmarched around _Olympic_ and _Titanic_ both," Alfred finished boredly. "Yeah, yeah, I know." He held out his hand. "Come on, give me your hand. "

Arthur looked warily at him.

"Why?"

"Because you gotta watch your step down here."

"Alfred," Arthur said icily, pushing past him, "I've put on two stone or so. I'm not a bleeding invalid."

Alfred sighed at him, then glanced about to check the coast was clear before he pulled the heavy steel door shut behind them. He put out his hands to the rails either side of the narrow metal stairway as he followed Arthur down, each step rattling beneath their weight.

"What _I_ want to know," Arthur went on haughtily, shooting Alfred a glance over his shoulder, "is exactly how _you_ know where we're going."

Alfred grinned.

"I explored every nook and cranny of this ship on Wednesday," he admitted. "They said I could go anywhere I wanted, so… well, I guess I took that pretty literally."

"I do hope you weren't making a nuisance of yourself."

"Always, sweetheart."

Arthur stopped on the steps, turning back to Alfred properly. The roar of machinery - _Titanic_ 's endless symphony, the rumblings of her great belly - blazed up from beneath them.

"And what, pray tell," Arthur went on coolly, "makes you think I'm going to find the engine room interesting? Do you think I haven't seen it before?"

Alfred simply smiled.

"Trust me," he said softly. "You haven't."

He sprang down the three steps separating them and shimmied past Arthur, trotting on ahead.

"Come on, come on," he called back, beckoning.

Arthur snorted and followed with an air of reluctance, muttering about having been given a thorough run-through of every last nut and bolt of _Olympic'_ s mechanism the year before and having found it rather boring.

"But Arthur," Alfred said patiently, turning to him to take the last few steps backwards. "…When you saw _Olympic_ 's engine rooms - yes, and _Titanic_ 's, too - neither of them were _moving_."

He reached out and took Arthur's hand a bit forcibly because he wanted the privilege, the credit, of being the one to show him what _Titanic_ , his newest present,could really do. Clearly Arthur was not impressed by magnificent décor and glittering chandeliers swaying from every ceiling, these were the idle pleasantries of the rich, things he was long used to and which stirred nothing whatsoever in him…

But _Titanic_. Oh, _Titanic_ ; in his bid to dismiss her as a petty luxury liner, stuffed to the brim with the rich and famous and useless, it appeared that Arthur had dismissed, also, that _Titanic_ was the largest, newest and most technically-advanced ship on the face of the entire globe.

And if Arthur refused to be won by world-class bands playing their beautiful laments in the dining saloon, then perhaps he could be won instead by the music of her labour.

Arthur was still holding Alfred's hand as he went to the rail of the platform they found themselves on; he was silent as he looked over. Below them and high above, too, _Titanic_ 's giant engines and pistons, as large as buildings and gleaming in their newness, worked to drive her propellers and her rudders through the Atlantic Ocean. Men in oil-streaked overalls and stained undershirts mastered this steel jungle, tiny but numerous and confident, well-trained without a moment lost between them. There was no glamour down here, just hard work and harder machinery, no pretence whatsoever, there was absolutely no room for it between the steam and the metal. Her monstrous boilers, further beneath so that they were as hot and deep as Hell, were her lungs and this, with its thrusting valves and pulsing pistons, was her heart.

Alfred had never seen anything quite like this before and he was fairly sure that Arthur hadn't, either. He gave Arthur's hand a quick squeeze, joining him at the rail.

"See?" He gave Arthur a nudge when he didn't get a reaction. "Hey!"

"Oh, don't gloat," Arthur relied quietly.

"Well, I _told_ you, huh?" Alfred was very pleased with himself.

"Yes, you certainly did." Arthur at last pulled his hand away, putting both palms to the rail and leaning over to watch a foreman with a thick Welsh accent call sharply to some of his men for assistance. "…It-it's not that I've never seen a crew at this sort of work before, _Dreadnought_ takes quite a bit of manoeuvring… not that I've ever been allowed to properly _sail_ on her, but still… And, _Warrior_ , too, she was hard work, as were all the ones which came after her, but…"

"It's the sheer scale, right? To keep something so big running so smoothly." Alfred whistled. "Nothing short of amazing, huh?"

"Yes, well, it would appear that you _do_ know how my crooked little mind works, hmm?"

Alfred glanced at Arthur, noting that he was smiling. He grinned back.

"Hey, well, people seem to think you're hard to please," he laughed, "but I think I have it all worked out."

Arthur snorted.

"I just like to see a bit of hard work," he said. "That's what gets things done. …Not that _I_ can talk much these days but I _used_ to know the meaning of it, at least. I didn't get my empire by gossiping in smoking rooms." He looked downwards again, smiling. "I'll always have far more respect for men like these - the quiet legions who hold up the world for everyone else."

Alfred pulled him close and kissed him on the forehead.

"You're welcome," he said with a little laugh. "…That's what you mean, isn't it?"

"What?"

"Thank you."

Arthur rolled his eyes.

"Cheeky," he muttered. "…But yes, I suppose a thank you, of sorts, is in order."

He took Alfred's chin, then, and held him firmly as he kissed him. Alfred, stunned, didn't react quickly enough and it was over before he could twist himself into it; he reached for Arthur, almost desperately, to pull him back, though Arthur would not be caught. Alfred floundered, quite thrown off; he regarded Arthur's smile with amused suspicion as he put his hand back to the rail, listening to _Titanic'_ s melancholy bellows.

"Thank you," Arthur went on, "for knowing me quite as well as you like to brag."

* * *

Quite a short chapter today! Tomorrow is the big one! D:


	6. Sunday April 14th, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> STEAMY HANDPRINT ON THE BACK WINDOW

Well, here we are. This is the important one - the first half of the sinking of the _Titanic_. This chapter covers only half due to the fact that the _Titanic_ sank technically over two dates, hitting the iceberg at 11:40pm on Sunday 14th and finally sinking at 2:20am on Monday 15th.

Sunday April 14th, 1912

Arthur had pulled all the hangings around the bed. It was morning, light pouring in through the windows and hitting the bed's scarlet drapes so that Alfred woke in an enclosed red room with the backwards shadows of embroidery on his skin. It was very warm and his skin tingled with that early heat as he stretched out his legs and spread his toes. There was an ache between his legs, tight and familiar, and he realised that he had been unlucky enough (on this, the third morning rising in Arthur's bed) to at last wake up hard.

He exhaled and turned over, pressing one leg tightly over the other. Arthur was facing him, still asleep, with a fiery tint to his ice-gold hair and a pink bloom in his rounded cheeks. All the worry and agitation was smoothed out of his face as he slept, giving him back the youth of the days before real empires, when all he had had instead was a handful of sweet fields in a new land and Alfred's heart, even then.

They had kissed again a few times last night, twice on the promenade with the star-deep sea rushing past far below, and once in bed as the lights burned out - but nothing more. Arthur had simply touched Alfred's face and then curled up in his arms and they had said nothing more.

Alfred reached out and slipped his hand into Arthur's, closing his long fingers around the back of his palm. His nails glowed red, the blood hurrying to the light. He shifted, his arousal knotted at the base of his spine, and the movement made Arthur wake.

Arthur's green eyes (with a strange touch of amber to them in this light) opened and, after sliding towards their clasped hands, fixed Alfred with a lazy look. He smiled, though it was humourless; more melancholy, perhaps.

"Good morning, Alfred," he sighed. He squeezed Alfred's hand.

"Hi," Alfred replied in a low voice. "…Sleep well?"

Arthur snorted.

"Come off it," he muttered. "Spare me the polite chit-chat. Next you'll be talking about the bleeding weather."

Alfred laughed.

"I wouldn't know about the weather. You pulled the drapes."

"I did." Arthur's gaze flickered over Alfred's face and up to his hairline. "…Your hair looks auburn. It's interesting."

"Does it?" Alfred bit his lip over a broad smile. "Maybe it's the Irish blood - like _Titanic_ 's Irish blood."

"Perhaps." Arthur didn't resist to Alfred lifting his arm clear of the bed, stretching to interlink their fingers. "…What are you doing?"

"Just playing." Alfred brought their hands back to the tangled sheets. "You want me to stop?"

"No, it's alright," Arthur said gently. He brought his other arm up beneath his head to rest his cheek on it. "You… do seem rather fidgety, though."

"Yeah." Alfred shifted again, using his knees to bunch the bed sheets over his crotch; he felt the blush beginning in his cheeks, glad of the scarlet stain already on them. "Guess I'm a little hot."

"It _is_ warm, isn't it?" Arthur said serenely. "Forgive me, it was a bit chilly last night so I pulled the hangings over." He sat up, his silk pyjamas gleaming over his curves. "I'll pull them back and make us some tea - how does that sound?"

"W-wait!" Alfred held onto him as he tried to rise. "Just… just wait for a moment."

Arthur frowned at him, pausing.

"What?" His hand was mere inches from the gap in the drapes. "What is it, Alfred?"

"Just…" Alfred hesitated, then cleared his throat. "I don't know, this is… nice. Just lie here with me for a moment longer."

He tugged at Arthur's arm as he spoke, pulling him back to the mattress. Arthur seemed to debate resisting for a moment before he settled back onto his side, watching Alfred all the while.

"Alright," he said quietly.

"Thank you." Alfred smiled at him, giving his hand a squeeze. "I… you just seem… happier right now than I've seen you this whole trip. I want the moment to last as long as I can make it."

Arthur exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes.

"That's awfully kind of you," he said softly. "…I'm sorry, you know, for being so grouchy. I know I never used to be like this, at least not when you were a child."

"Arty, I can't stand seeing you unhappy." Alfred reached out to brush a few fronds of hair back from Arthur's face. "You know that, right?"

"I was under the impression." Arthur gave a wry smile at Alfred's touch. "But I have to tell you, Alfred, that your company has cheered me immensely."

Alfred wrinkled his nose.

"I was a bit of a jerk to you at first," he admitted.

"But I couldn't possibly have expected you to understand, all the same. I don't blame you for growing so frustrated with me. I frustrate myself a lot of the time." Arthur gave Alfred's hand an affectionate squeeze. "I'm very grateful for your patience. Even Francis grows tired of me very quickly these days and he has made winding me up into his specialty."

"I'm not here to wind you up," Alfred promised.

"I know."

Arthur shifted forward, cuddling into Alfred's chest; Alfred let go of his hand to put his arms around him, holding him close.

"I've missed you," Arthur went on, his mouth against Alfred's shoulder. "I've devoured your letters for eleven years but it's barely satisfied me. I wanted… so many times to write and beg you to visit me but I knew you were busy-"

"I'd have come," Alfred interrupted. "Of course I'd have come if only you'd asked. I missed you too, you know - I've always missed you. But… but there were never any formal diplomatic invitations and you always seemed so distant in your letters, I don't know, I guess I just… let myself get distracted by other things. I thought, if you'd _wanted_ to see me, you would have asked."

Arthur simply sighed.

"I suppose I was too proud," he said, "to want to risk you rejecting me."

Alfred laughed.

"Me too," he said warmly. "We're pretty stupid, both of us. Good thing _Titanic_ finally brought us back together, huh?"

Arthur didn't say anything. Alfred burrowed his fingers into his head and rubbed at his scalp; he could feel Arthur trembling in his arms.

"…Arty?" Alfred pressed his mouth to the crown of Arthur's head. "Are you… crying?"

Arthur's breath hitched. He didn't lift his head, though his fingers tightened and twisted in Alfred's cotton pyjama shirt.

"Oh, god, don't cry," Alfred begged, cradling him. " _Please_ don't. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not upset," Arthur mumbled. "I-I simply… I've had the world's largest empire for decades, I'm so used to just taking what I want and yet… I didn't with you, I know we've slept together before but I just… I couldn't, Alfred, I thought you'd never… _never_ want me, not like this."

Alfred sighed into Arthur's hair.

"I can't believe you think I'm that shallow," he said in a low voice. "I already told you-"

"Oh, but _I've_ told _you_!" Arthur interrupted. "God knows I'm not much to look at anymore but it's not just the weight, Alfred - it's everything, I'm… I'm just an absolute _mess_ and I don't know how… h-how to fix myself or my nation or _anything_ ; I think to myself that I really _need_ that war, I need it to take me by throat and shake some sense into me but… I'm terrified of it too because it's going to be so _different_ and awful and just… I _know_ it is, what with the things we can create now." He gave a shaky sigh. " _Titanic_ 's engines, I mean - when we saw them working yesterday. _That's_ what humans are capable of, Alfred. Imagine how they can kill now, with that sort of power."

"Arthur…" Alfred was a bit confused. "…I don't see what that has to do with me loving you." He paused, hoping that his words - long kept to himself - would impact and settle and salvage the moment.

But there was silence.

"Because I _do_ love you, Arty," he went on, his voice growing a little strained. "…I guess I just should have said it about two decades ago and saved us both a lot of misery."

"I don't know how much it would have helped," Arthur finally said. He lifted his head and laid it on Alfred's chest; Alfred wiped his face dry with the heel of his hand. "Things would still be the same. I'd probably still be overweight-"

"I'd still love you."

"And I'd still be responsible for the war that's coming," Arthur went on firmly. "It's my empire Wilhelm wants. It's my _Dreadnought_ everyone else copied. I was the one who led the Industrial Revolution."

"Arthur-"

"Oh, I won't _start_ the war, Alfred - but I'll be the one to have paved the way for it, mark my words. I've been very irresponsible, throwing my weight around - if you'll pardon the expression - and then settling back after Victoria's death and growing complacent about my position. I can't allow my people to build something like _Titanic_ and then pretend that the oncoming slaughter in her design has nothing to do with me." He found Alfred's hand again, knotting their fingers together. "…That, too, is probably why I'm so miserable. I was happier back then, leading the charge and ignoring the consequences - but now I've nothing better to do but know that I did _this_. Things do tend to turn poisonous, don't they, when you allow them to stagnate?"

"War is never a one-sided thing, Art."

"Oh, I know, but… well, as I said, it's mere stagnation and it's my doing. This bloody century, I tell you… _Titanic_ , I will admit, is more impressive than I first gave her credit for - and she has you to thank for that, Alfred - but nonetheless she has not saved 1912 for me."

"Well," Alfred whispered in his ear, "perhaps _I_ could - if you would let me."

"Hm." Arthur pressed his cheek to Alfred's collarbone, holding up their intertwined hands to look at them. "…I love you too, you know, Alfred. Despite myself, I think."

"Then don't deny me out of fear," Alfred said softly. "Because none of it matters to me, Arthur - a few pounds on your hips or blood on your hands from mechanised warfare, you're still you. I'll always remember those first fields, _my_ fields, as wide and endless as the sea - and how those amazing eyes of yours look so much like them."

"Beautiful," Arthur sighed. He smiled. "…Of course, please don't think I haven't noticed your erection against my thigh."

Alfred's face reddened.

"Shut up," he said; and he took Arthur's face and kissed him, hard.

Arthur was far more receptive now, at least - for even last night the kisses had been held at bay by his hands at Alfred's elbows, stopping him from venturing much further. Now, though, he put his hands to Alfred's waist and let him push him onto his back, deep into the nest of rumpled First Class bedding. It was so hot in here, not cramped but certainly downsized, almost a little claustrophobic with all the drapes pulled so tightly around them. Alfred pressed their foreheads together as he broke the kiss and Arthur's hands slipped up over his back to his shoulders.

"Got anything?" Alfred asked, kissing Arthur's jaw-line. "Oil… or some kind of slick-"

"There's tallow grease in the bedside drawer - for the candles, you know."

Alfred leaned over and put his hand out from beneath the drapes to fumble blindly at the bedside table; he got the drawer open and felt for the box, managing to get it after a few clumsy tries. He pulled it back in and closed the gap again, turning the light deeply red again. Arthur took the box from his hand and pulled him down for another kiss.

"It's been a long time for me, you know," Arthur confided a little breathlessly, touching Alfred's face. "I haven't felt like it in so long and then… well, of course, there haven't been many takers, either."

"I… I haven't either," Alfred admitted. "Been busy and… well, I haven't seen _you_."

"Ugh, you're a disgusting sap," Arthur groaned good-humouredly, pinching Alfred's nose.

Alfred laughed and pulled his head free and then they were kissing again.

"God, I missed you," he whispered. "I missed you so much, Arthur. I was so happy when… when they said you'd be travelling on _Titanic_ , I just-"

"Enough," Arthur sighed, taking Alfred's face in his hands. He kissed his forehead. "Enough, love. Just… my god, just do your best to make me _forget_ about 1912 and… and…"

Alfred smiled against his skin and pulled him close. The entire thing was a heated fumbling, a red-tinted and close-quartered crush, Arthur softer and plusher beneath his hands than he had ever been before - when he had been jagged bone and tight, wiry muscle. He was curvy now; and shy about it, looking away when Alfred stripped him of that garish paisley silk. Alfred put his arm beneath Arthur's head at that, tilting him up to kiss him again; and in that rubied blush of morning light filtered through rich hangings they tangled, Alfred worshipping his reddened and ripened skin with oiled fingers. He left his fingerprints, guilty marks of well-bred longing, and Arthur was perfectly accepting, arching beneath him. There was barely an inch between them, blazing and shuddering and different to all those other times, just their breathing, harsh and short, and their breaking whispers and the usual symphony of _Titanic_ 's massive engines decks below as she roared eastward into her last ever sunrise.

* * *

"Shall we go to the smoking room?" Arthur asked serenely; he was playing absently with a button on his waistcoat, the gorgeous white-and-gold one of the first night.

Alfred blinked, then looked at the clock.

"It's a bit late, don't you think? The men usually go straight after dinner."

"Well, I'd prefer it if it was a bit quiet," Arthur admitted. "We've more chance of getting a better seat. Besides, aside from church this morning, I've kept you cooped up with me all day."

"Time well spent, I think," Alfred said with a grin; but he rose from where he'd been sitting on the rug, poking at the fire. "Alright, let me grab my lighter. I'm out of smokes, though."

"I'll give you one of mine." Arthur stood from the couch and straightened, giving his waistcoat a tug. "I really should stop wearing this one, it's getting much too tight, I'm ashamed to say… Look, I think I'm about to lose this button."

"So undo it." Alfred found his lighter on the desk and pocketed it, coming back. He offered Arthur his arm. "Shall we?"

Arthur rolled his eyes but slipped his arm through Alfred's; he plucked his bottom two buttons undone with his other hand as they headed towards the suite door. Alfred opened it and Arthur took the opportunity to snatch up an apricot from the bowl beside the door, sinking his teeth into it before Alfred could take it off him.

"After you _just_ complained about your waistcoat being too tight!" Alfred exclaimed. "I am boring you that much?"

"Give over." Arthur slipped his arm back through Alfred's; he seemed quite pleased with his steal. "Please don't think you can cure me in only five days. Granted, that brilliant shag this morning distracted me from eating a plateful of coconut macaroons - a dreadful Sunday morning weakness of mine - but still, I do think it's naïve of you."

Alfred simply looked at him for a long moment - before snatching the apricot and dashing off with it down the corridor.

"Alfred!" Arthur called after him crossly. "Bring that back!"

"Come and get it if you want it!" Alfred hollered back; he reached the end of the corridor and turned, waving the apricot at Arthur. "Come on, work a few pounds off and I'll let you have the damned thing!"

"Apricots are healthy!" Arthur shouted at him.

"Not if you had two helpings of gooseberry tart for dessert!" Alfred vanished around the corner and descended the staircase to A Deck. Arthur wasn't making much effort to chase him, he noticed - which didn't surprise him. Arthur wasn't in very good shape these days, naturally, and was used to just demanding what he wanted and getting it.

He emerged onto the deck and went to the side; it was very cold, his breath condensing on the night air as he breathed out, and he shivered. He took a bite out of the apricot himself as he waited for Arthur. It tasted sweet and bright, a little juice dribbling down over his chin as he swallowed. Arthur at last emerged, looking rather irritable - Alfred grinned at him and neatly tossed the apricot overboard.

"Trust me," he said sweetly as Arthur stomped over to him. "I'm doing you a favour, darling."

Arthur scowled for a moment; then sighed, wilting.

"Alright," he muttered grudgingly. "I suppose it's done now, anyway." He put his hands to the side and looked down at the black waters.

"Jeez, you're not going to go in after it, are you?" Alfred laughed.

"No," Arthur lamented. "I'd go in after a slice of lemon drizzle cake, perhaps, but not an apricot." He was quiet for a moment, then leaned a little further over. "…It's awfully still, isn't it?"

"The sea?"

"Yes." Arthur breathed out. "Bloody freezing, too. We might be near ice."

"I hope not," Alfred said cheerfully. "Because then we might stop for the night."

"And why would that bother you, exactly?"

"Because the sooner we get to New York, the sooner I can kidnap you."

"To save me from myself?" Arthur asked lazily.

"Well, yeah. And coconut macaroons."

"You already did that."

"Hey, hey, I never said I didn't have a game-plan."

"How delightful."

"You didn't complain this morning."

Arthur simply rolled his eyes and pushed away from the side.

"Come on," he said. "Let's go back inside."

He slipped his hand into Alfred's and they headed towards the First Class entrance, Alfred pulling open the heavy door for Arthur to go in first. Arthur paused at the threshold, however, looking past Alfred at the sea again. Alfred looked over his shoulder, confused.

"What?" he asked. "Do you see something?"

"No." Arthur shook his head. "No, it's just… it's rather unsettling. I… don't think I've ever seen the sea as still as this."

"Isn't that a good thing? I mean, it's plain sailing if the sea is calm, right?"

"Yes, of course, but you do have think… that it will make any obstructions very difficult to see; icebergs, other ships…"

"Well, I'm sure the crew knows what they're doing." Alfred shivered again and ushered Arthur through the door. "Come on, I'm freezing my balls off. Let's go have that smoke."

He put his arm around Arthur's shoulders as they headed back into _Titanic_ , Arthur pressing contentedly against him with his hand in Alfred's pocket. Alfred kissed his temple as they came to the grand staircase and started down the marble steps.

"Say you _will_ come with me," he said quietly. "When we dock in New York. Your government is going to kill you at this rate. Come with me and we'll vanish like I said, yeah, and I'll look after you and-"

Alfred cut himself off with a yelp as he stumbled; or, rather, they both did as the staircase gave a sudden tremor beneath their feet, Arthur grabbing the banister with one hand and seizing Alfred's belt with the other to stop him tumbling head-first down the steps. Alfred righted himself, the floor still trembling beneath their feet, and took hold of the central banister as he looked up. The glittering chandeliers were swaying ever so slightly, their gems rattling. Down in the entrance hall, everyone else had stopped what they were doing, stewards and maids and passengers alike, and were looking around and up in confusion. It wasn't a mighty shuddering like an earthquake, quieter and gentler, but it was there and it was unnerving. Ships weren't supposed to shudder like this. It meant something was wrong.

It stopped just as suddenly and Alfred, wide-eyed, looked at Arthur.

"What the hell was _that_?" he asked. "Do you think we hit something?"

"If we did, it came out of bleeding nowhere," Arthur said. "We were just out there and I didn't see a thing."

"I know." Alfred took Arthur's wrist and pulled him the rest of the way down the staircase. "What shall we do?"

"I don't think we've collided head on with anything," Arthur said, watching the chandeliers finally settle. "The impact would have been much more noticeable. We've probably just clipped something." He beckoned. "Come along, let's go to the smoking room as we planned. If it _is_ anything serious, it's sure to be announced there."

Alfred nodded and followed him across the hall; they headed into the First Class smoking room, finding a pair of empty armchairs close to the fire. They settled and lit up, Arthur leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. Alfred, on the other hand, looked around. The room was very quiet, the usual late-night lull of the straggling kinds of gentlemen who did not go to bed early, still nursing drinks and making idle conversation. They did not seem concerned in the slightest, almost as though they hadn't noticed the tremor. Perhaps they hadn't.

Arthur ordered a brandy from a passing steward but didn't drink much of it, simply holding it on his knee as he brooded in his chair. Alfred sensed the sudden black turn in his mood and it gnawed at his stomach, making him very nervous.

"What's the matter?" he asked in a low voice; he reached out and put his hand on Arthur's arm. "Art?"

"Listen," Arthur said. He turned his green eyes on Alfred. "The engines."

Alfred straightened in his chair, his cigarette halfway to his lips. He listened. For the first time since Southampton, he could not hear _Titanic_ 's incessant roars.

"…They've stopped," he realised. His grip on Arthur's arm tightened. "Arthur…"

Arthur stiffened suddenly, looking over Alfred's shoulder. As before on A Deck, Alfred followed his gaze; Thomas Andrews was striding briskly through the room, rolled-up sheets and plans and the like under his arm. He vanished and Arthur sank back against his chair again.

"I think," he said grimly, "that this might be rather serious after all."

* * *

Alfred was on his third cigarette, his nerves beginning to fray, Arthur's silence frightening him, when Stewart appeared in the smoking room, slightly out of breath. He panted in relief as his eyes fell on the two of them, hurrying over.

"Thank god," he said, motioning for them to rise. "Come on, get up, both of you!"

"What's the matter?" Alfred asked, stubbing out his cigarette. He gripped at his armchair as he looked up at Stewart, his stomach knotting.

"You need to be briefed," Stewart said, looking at Arthur. "Commodore Kirkland, _please_."

Arthur looked irritably at him before knocking back the rest of his brandy and finally getting out of his chair.

"Don't tell me the bloody thing is sinking," he said icily.

"I am not discussing this here," Stewart snapped. "Both of you, come at once. Captain's orders."

Alfred scrambled out of his chair, shooting Arthur a worried look as Stewart started away; Arthur simply shrugged, apparently more interested in his cigarette. They followed Stewart out of the smoking room and back through the First Class section, diverting at length into a small office.

"I see Captain Sherman isn't back yet," Stewart said briskly, shutting the door. "He was sent to locate you, too. Very well - I will brief you myself."

Alfred folded his arms nervously, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Arthur was blunter, seeming to lose his patience.

"What did we hit?" he asked sharply. "I'm not an idiot. I've been on hundreds of ships and I'd prefer it if you didn't downplay the situation."

"An iceberg," Stewart said in a low voice. "It seems that there was an attempt to turn and move around the berg on the port side but _Titanic_ did not get quite clear and her hull was breached. Captain Sherman and I have received orders from First Officer Murdoch. The situation is very serious - _Titanic_ is sinking, gentlemen."

Alfred blinked. Arthur simply snorted.

"H-how… how can she be _sinking_?" Alfred asked. "She's… I thought they said she was-"

"Alfred, she's _not_ unsinkable," Arthur interrupted coldly. "Nothing is." He looked at Stewart. "How long?"

"Mr Andrews… said it might be up to two hours or so but… well, there is no way of being certain."

Alfred looked at him helplessly.

"So what the hell do we do?" he asked.

"You two are to go to your cabins immediately," Stewart said, "and get your lifebelts. Then you are to head up to the boat deck and get into a lifeboat. Again, Captain's orders. He is quite adamant that you two be removed from _Titanic_ as soon as possible."

Alfred didn't know what else to do but give a shaky nod; but Arthur put out his hand, shaking his head.

"I don't think that will be necessary," he said. "I would remind you that Alfred and I are not exactly susceptible to drowning."

Stewart simply met his gaze, unwavering.

"Captain's orders," he said again. "And I presume he gives them _because_ he knows that you two are, well, national representatives. It will reflect very badly on him, wouldn't you agree, if the two of you are not attended to accordingly."

"I should imagine it will reflect badly on him that the _Titanic_ is sinking at all," Arthur said coolly.

"Don't argue with me!" Stewart seemed to lose his patience. He pointed angrily at the door. "Lifebelts, boat deck, lifeboats. _Immediately_. If you'll excuse me, I'm needed on deck to help with the loading."

He banged out of the office without another word. Arthur put a hand to his temple, pressing against it.

"I really can't stand being shouted at," he muttered. "It used to happen all the time - right after Victoria died and I didn't like the changes… Honestly, you would think I hadn't a mind of my own."

"Arthur, come on." Alfred reached out and took Arthur's arm, tugging at him. "Let's get our lifebelts."

"We don't need them."

"W-well, it can't hurt to get them," Alfred said desperately, hauling at him. "Come on, Arty, _please_."

Arthur spat out what was left of his cigarette and crushed it underfoot before allowing himself to be dragged by Alfred back towards First Class.

"I can't believe _Titanic_ is sinking," Alfred said, shaking his head. "All that talk… about the bulkheads and-"

"There must be more than four compartments breached," Arthur interrupted calmly. "It's very simple."

"But… but god, she's so new and amazing and expensive and she's… she's _sinking_ -"

"Have you ever been on a sinking ship before, Alfred?"

"No." Alfred looked at him. "Have… you?"

"Dozens." Arthur smirked at him. "Well, at least that explains your behaviour."

"Being scared is a perfectly normal reaction!" Alfred burst out.

"For humans, yes." Arthur opened the door to his suite. "Alfred, we can't die. Really, all this fuss about lifeboats… We're the _last_ two people on this entire ship who need one."

Alfred kneaded at his forehead as he stepped into the suite after Arthur.

"Stop being so difficult," he snapped, "and get your damn lifebelt, will you?"

Arthur didn't say anything, heading towards the bedroom. Alfred sighed, looking around the magnificent suite; though he was happier with things of much plainer décor, it ached to know that soon, irreversibly, this wonderful room and all those like it, the gorgeous dining saloons and classy smoking rooms, the opulent Turkish baths and the superb gym and the beautiful staircase where they had first felt the shudder of the iceberg, would be banished to the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.

He located the lifejackets on top of one of the cupboards in the suite; there were four, which he pulled down and threw onto the sofa. He put one on, tying it firmly around his waist, and picked up another to bring to Arthur, who had vanished into the bedroom.

"Arthur, what the hell are you doing?" he asked crossly, appearing in the doorway. "I have the lifebelts here. Come on, put it on and let's go."

Arthur was pulling out all of his books from the wooden chest he'd brought them in, spreading them over the bed.

" _Arthur_!" Alfred said again, exasperated. "Come on! Leave the books, for god's sake!" He shook the lifejacket at him. "Put your lifebelt on!"

"I don't need a bloody lifebelt!" Arthur snapped. "And I'm not leaving my books, either." He gathered up four after another moment's choosing, putting the others back in the chest and locking it. "At least not these ones. The others I love but can replace."

"Great. Fine. Let's go." Alfred grabbed Arthur by the arm and forced him to get moving.

"Actually, you can take my books up the lifeboats," Arthur said easily as Alfred hauled him out of the suite door. "Make sure they're put in one, I don't want them getting wet. One is from 1247, it has the most amazing gold-leaf work-"

"Carry your own damn books!" Alfred exclaimed. "You can just sit them on your lap - if they even let you on with them."

Arthur stopped again, pulling his arm from Alfred's grasp.

"I'm not getting in a lifeboat," he said. He sounded rather incredulous. "…Surely neither of us are."

"What, I… w-why wouldn't we?" Alfred in turn stared at him in utter bewilderment. "Arthur, I don't… of _course_ we're getting in a lifeboat, why… why the hell would we stay on board a sinking ship if there are boats…?"

Arthur's jade eyes gazed very deeply at Alfred for a moment; then they widened in realisation.

"Alfred," he said slowly. "…Do you know how many lifeboats _Titanic_ actually has?"

Alfred blinked.

"Uh, no, I guess around-"

"She only has sixteen," Arthur interrupted. He began walking again, cradling his four lucky books to his chest. "Twenty if you count the four collapsibles. The White Star lifeboats hold sixty-five people each; the collapsibles hold forty-seven. There are two thousand, two hundred and eight passengers and crew on board this ship. If each lifeboat is filled to capacity, that's still only room enough for one thousand, two hundred and twenty-eight people. That leaves nine hundred and eight people without a way off this ship."

"But…" Alfred looked at him, horrified. "Why… would _Titanic_ not have enough lifeboats for everyone on board?"

Arthur shrugged.

"Maritime law doesn't require it. White Star Line actually carries more lifeboats than are legally required - though of course _Titanic_ and _Olympic_ both have room for far more than twenty boats."

"But that means… all those people are going to _die_ -"

"All but two," Arthur interrupted. "You and I, Alfred - because we're immortal. Regardless of Captain's orders, we cannot, in all good conscience, take seats in a lifeboat which might be occupied by humans whose lives it will save."

"Of course." Alfred fidgeted with the lifebelt in his hands. "I… I didn't know-"

"I know you didn't. Most of the people on this ship don't, I shouldn't think." Arthur sighed. "Still, I do want to save my books. I won't have them ruined because a bloody iceberg got in our way… Oh!"

He exclaimed this as a stewardess came hurrying past them; he was quick to grasp her arm, stopping her.

"Miss, please take these up and have them put in a lifeboat," he said, handing her the books. "They're very important so please make sure they're safe. Oh, and…" Arthur reached out and took the lifejacket Alfred had brought for him, putting it over the maid's head. "Here, you must wear a lifebelt." He tied it for her and she nodded, half in thanks and half in affirmation, taking the books and scurrying off again.

"Well, I'm glad that's settled," Arthur said, watching her go. He seemed quite pleased with himself.

"Arthur," Alfred said in a small voice. "What… what the hell do we do now?"

"We wait for the unsinkable ship to sink, of course," Arthur replied dryly. "Come on, let's go back to the smoking room. I fancy another brandy after all this excitement."

He put out his hand and Alfred had nothing else to do but take it. His palm was sweaty against Arthur's as they headed back to the First Class smoking room and he undid his lifebelt with his free hand as they walked, slinging it to a crew member without one.

He couldn't help but notice that everything had begun, ever so slightly, to tilt.

* * *

…Soooo will they stay on the ship? This is all very noble but being immortal might pose a few problems in that regard, as it turns out…

_Titanic_ is going down tomorrow, one hundred years to the very date she hit the ocean floor. Personally I think it's just the oddest thing that she's _still_ down there... I mean it's been one hundred years, people talk about the disaster as old history, something which happened a whole century ago, but _Titanic_ herself, she's still there on the floor of the Atlantic...


	7. Monday April 15th, 1912

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll never let go, Jack. I'll never let go.

It's the second half of the sinking and the last proper chapter of this fic! Thank you all for following it and for your kind words of support! In a lot of ways, though I have jumped on the centenary bandwagon, I did mean for this story to commemorate the _Titanic_ and her victims, so I'm very happy that so many of you have joined me in remembering the one hundredth anniversary of her sinking - which, of course, sadly claimed over 1500 lives.

Monday April 15th, 1912

_Titanic_ was beginning to groan. Horrendous rumbling creaks, as of twisting steel, crawled up through her decks, capering under her floors and up inside her walls. The sound made Alfred shudder; he had nothing to fear, really, and he knew it. Arthur was right, the two of them were immortal - they were in no danger whatsoever of losing their lives but-

Alfred couldn't help it. He was utterly terrified. His fingers trembled as he tried to light up another cigarette, fumbling on the lighter so that his grip slipped and it fell, unlit, into his lap.

"Here, let me." Arthur, who was unspeakably and unfathomably calm, lifted the lighter and leaned over to flash the flame over the cigarette clamped between Alfred's white lips. "There, darling."

Alfred watched him go back to his cake, which had been brought by a harassed-looking steward in a lifebelt. It was Victoria sponge and Arthur was apparently delighted with it, seeming really quite comfortable in his armchair by the fire in the smoking room of a ship sinking by the head. His second glass of brandy was beginning to slide on the table before him, getting closer to the edge. Alfred reached out and pushed it back into the middle, only for it to begin its descent once more.

"Alfred, don't be nervous," Arthur sighed at him. "It'll be alright."

Alfred swallowed, shakily tapping off his ash.

"I know, it's just…" He exhaled deeply. "God, I've… I've never been on a sinking ship before and I _know_ we're going to be okay but _Titanic_ … she's so huge and she's making all those noises-" He winced as _Titanic_ , as if on cue, groaned again as though she was in pain. "I-I'm scared, I can't… I don't know how you can be so calm!"

"It's practice on my part," Arthur said blandly.

"W-well, it's not just that, I mean… what you said about the lifeboats… there aren't enough-"

"Chances are, even if there were," Arthur interrupted, stabbing at his cake, "they wouldn't be able to get them all launched in time. It seems that she is going down awfully quickly. The davits can only do them one at a time, at least without packing them on top of one another, and of course there will be the suction as she goes down - the lifeboats have to get far enough away to avoid being pulled down with her."

"I-"

"It's really a dreadful thing. White Star Line is going to get hauled over the coals for this, mark my words." Arthur put out his hand and his brandy slid neatly into it. "I wonder if they've called for assistance. There must be other ships nearby, this is a well-travelled route."

"Would… would they get to us in time?"

"It depends on how far away they are, of course, and how fast they can go." Arthur sipped at his brandy. "I wouldn't get your hopes up too much but you never know. _Titanic_ might get lucky."

"God, I hope so." Alfred shrank in his armchair. "All those people… Arthur, I don't want all those people to die!"

"Neither do I." Arthur's expression grew grim again. "But I don't suppose there's much anyone can do, not now. She's going down and there aren't enough lifeboats or time." He put his brandy down on the floor, where it started to slide away from his chair, and put out his hand to give Alfred's a quick squeeze. "I don't know what to say to you, I'm afraid. I would try not to think about it too much, if I were you."

Alfred squeezed back and breathed out. _Titanic_ rumbled again and he looked nervously up at the ceiling.

"Shouldn't we at least… go up and help load the lifeboats?" he asked weakly. "You're a trained sailor, Arty - you'd probably be useful."

"I have utterly no idea how to load and lower a lifeboat," Arthur replied. "Any ship I've ever been on that has sunk didn't have them."

"St-still-"

"Besides, it's so-called Captain's orders that we be put in a lifeboat," Arthur went on serenely, spearing the cherry on his cake with his fork. "If we go up to help, we'll just be shoved into one." He popped the cherry into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. " _And_ ," he added bitterly, "it's likely to be chaos up there. People shouting gives me such a headache these days, I really can't stand it even for a moment. I'd really prefer to stay down here, you know, where it's nice and calm."

"Arthur…" Alfred straightened again, looking at him in desperation. "Look, I understand what you're saying about the lifeboats - I agree with you completely that we shouldn't take two seats that would save the lives of two humans instead, but… look, we _can't_ stay in here!"

"Of course we can," Arthur said. He nodded over Alfred's shoulder towards the other end of the smoking room. "Look, there's Mr Guggenheim, all dressed up in his best. _He_ doesn't look like he's going anywhere, does he?"

"But he is not _immortal_!" Alfred hissed, leaning across and grasping Arthur's wrist. "He can drown, right, and that's really awful but at least then he'll be dead and he won't have anything to worry about. But you and me… we'll drown and then we'll revive again and if we're stuck underwater in _Titanic_ after she sinks, we'll just _keep_ drowning and reviving and we'll never be able to get out and-"

"Not to mention the water pressure," Arthur said lightly. "We'd be crushed."

"Then you see why we can't stay down here!" Alfred snapped.

Arthur simply waved his hand at him.

"All in good time, Alfred," he sighed. "Let me finish my cake and my brandy and… oh, bother! Where the hell has it gone?"

"There it goes," Alfred said, pointing; the glass was sliding merrily away across the floor. "Shall I get it?"

"Oh, leave it," Arthur muttered. "I've probably had too much, anyway. I'll not be able to swim straight." He returned to his cake, falling back into contented silence.

Alfred allowed his cigarette to smoulder, untouched, in his hand. He closed his eyes as _Titanic_ wailed.

* * *

It was five minutes past one in the morning. The smoking room was on a definite, noticeable tilt and Alfred found himself and Arthur sitting with Benjamin Guggenheim and his valet, Victor Giglio, both of whom were dressed, as before, in their best evening clothes. They had accepted their fates and were prepared to go down with _Titanic_ as nothing less than gentlemen, by which Arthur was clearly suitably impressed.

"Do you know," Guggenheim said to Alfred, "I wanted very much to invite you to dine with me in my suite, Mr Jones - but I could never find you."

"Oh, yeah, I was a bit… distracted," Alfred admitted, glancing at Arthur. "I'm very sorry, Mr Guggenheim."

Guggenheim smiled.

"Well, no harm done," he said. "There's no point in being upset about it now. I would have been very honoured, though." He gestured around with his brandy glass. "Still, this is quite as good. It's really very nice of both of you to sit with us."

"Mr Guggenheim," Arthur said graciously, "your conduct is remarkable. I don't think there's anyone on this ship we'd rather sit with."

"Then you might join us on the boat deck?" Guggenheim gestured to Giglio. "There doesn't seem much point in sitting in here much longer. My drink doesn't even sit on the table any more. We've decided to go down with _Titanic_ , as have you, but I don't see why I shouldn't try and get my money's worth out of my ticket. Victor and I thought we'd find ourselves a few deckchairs and wait it out."

"Well, I don't see why not," Arthur said, looking to Alfred. "You wanted to go upstairs anyway, didn't you, Alfred?"

"You know I did," Alfred said icily. He got up, taking Arthur's arm. "Come on, let's go."

"Don't pull me, Alfred." Arthur twisted irritably as he was hauled out of his chair.

"Well, I like very much that you'll go up on deck for Mr Guggenheim," Alfred said in a low voice, "but not for me."

"I can't help but acquiesce to the suggestion of another gentleman," Arthur replied, shooting Guggenheim a charming smile. "And besides," he continued gently, slipping his arm through Alfred's and leaning close as Guggenheim and Giglio led the way across the smoking room, "…I've been trying to spare you. As for me, I won't be pleased by the noise but _you_ , Alfred… You're going to be upset by what you see up here. I didn't want to have to subject you to it before I had to."

Alfred simply looked at him.

"And what about _you_ in that sense?" he asked coolly.

"I have seen men drown before," Arthur said. "I have heard it. It is… very distressing, you have my word - most especially when you know that there is nothing you can do to help them."

Alfred looked away again, quiet. Arthur squeezed his arm as they left the smoking room and started back towards the grand staircase. There were people milling everywhere, some more panicked than others, fumbling with lifejackets and carrying small children. A steward tried to give Guggenheim a lifebelt as he started up the staircase but he refused it; and likewise Alfred and Arthur both shook their heads in decline as they followed Guggenheim and his faithful valet up the stairs and through the throngs of people further up.

The panic was building as _Titanic_ sank ever deeper beneath the waves.

They emerged on the boat deck to a scene of utter chaos. People of all classes ran in every direction in clusters, fighting over lifebelts and calling for lost family and friends. The noise was deafening and Alfred saw Arthur press his fingertips to his forehead almost immediately, grimacing as an officer bellowing orders came shooting past them.

"We can't go back inside, Arty," Alfred said desperately. "Look at that." He pointed down towards _Titanic_ 's bow, which was visible, though hundreds of feet away, as almost completely submerged beneath the black waterline.

"I know," Arthur said sharply. He looked at Guggenheim. "Let's find somewhere to sit, shall we?"

Guggenheim nodded and beckoned, beginning to lead them across the bursting boat deck in the direction of the stern - which, it was clear, was beginning to rise out of the sea. They passed an immense crowd at the side, pushing forwards towards a loading lifeboat under the charge of a young officer with a heavy Welsh accent and a gleaming revolver, who called impatiently for women and children to come to the front. A woman in a tattered dress close by them clung to her husband, sobbing, before being forcibly pulled from his grasp and pushed through the crowd to the boat. Alfred stopped, watching a wailing little boy being, in much the same manner, taken from his tearful father's arms and handed down to an elderly lady-

"Alfred, come on." Arthur pulled at him. "Don't look, it's… it's simply too awful and there's nothing we can do. Come along."

"All… all the men are being left behind," Alfred said faintly. "I… I didn't think they were going to _separate_ families-"

"It's women and children first," Arthur said, tugging at Alfred. "Or, in the case of there being not enough lifeboats, women and children only." He pulled and got Alfred moving again. "Come _on_."

They caught up with Guggenheim and his valet, who had procured some deckchairs near to where the band was standing on the deck as though in the dining saloon, regaling the panicked and deaf crowds with as many lively tunes as they could play. Guggenheim, who still had his brandy, took some cigars from his pocket and offered them around; Arthur and Giglio both took one but Alfred, who had smoked about six cigarettes in the past hour, felt a bit sick from smoke (among other things) and refused.

"Well," Arthur said, tipping his head back and blowing his smoke to the icy air. "This is nice, isn't it - all things considered?" He nodded towards the band. "I didn't expect entertainment. They're frightfully good, aren't they?"

"Oh, truly superb," Guggenheim agreed. He smiled serenely at all three of them - looking at his valet with a real fondness. "Really, I can think of worse ways to die, gentlemen."

* * *

Alfred sat gripping the arms of his deckchair, his heart pounding; Arthur's hand was on top of his, rubbing soothing circles on the back of it. The night air was sharp and bitter and the sea around the sinking ship was as clear as glass. The band, but a few feet from them, played on, their bows skipping over strings to pour forth a jaunty melody quite unbefitting the situation, really - though it drowned out the shouting and wailing and gunshots. Arthur, at least, seemed to take great comfort in this, for he had his eyes closed and was listening to them quite intently. Guggenheim and Giglio were quiet, too, still sipping and smoking.

_Titanic_ 's bow was completely underwater and there were twelve lifeboats paddling laboriously away from her - many of which did not look all that full. Alfred looked up towards the mighty funnels he had observed with such awe upon boarding at Southampton as they were lit by another of _Titanic_ 's futile distress rockets booming high above her.

He had no idea what the hell Arthur's plan was once _Titanic_ disappeared from beneath them and they were in the sea. It would be freezing, he knew, and although they could not drown or die from hypothermia - no doubt the coming fates of most of the people still on board - they could still pass out from the temperature. Perhaps they should have kept their lifebelts after all, at least it would save them treading water for hours - and he wondered if it was worth going to see if he could find some more.

That and… well, he couldn't stand sitting here a moment longer.

"Arty, I'm going to go help with the lifeboats," he said firmly, getting up. "I-I can't just sit here, I-"

"Alright." Arthur looked lazily up at him. "See you in a bit, love."

Alfred gave a nod and turned to Guggenheim, sticking out his hand.

"Mr Guggenheim," he said, shaking with him. "I'm sorry about dinner. I… I wish I'd known."

"It's alright, Mr Jones," Guggenheim replied calmly. "Not every man can say that his nation sat with him in the final hour of his life."

Alfred swallowed, not daring to speak at that. He shook with Giglio too, nodded again and, after another glance at Arthur (who gave him a reassuring smile), began to stride briskly away in search of a boat to help with. He barely got a few feet away, however, when Sherman, the naval officer who had accompanied Arthur on board, rammed his way through a crush of people and seized Alfred by the elbow.

"What the _hell_ are you two still doing on board?" he stormed. "Stewart informed me that he briefed the pair of you well over an hour ago! Why aren't you in a lifeboat?"

"O-oh, we…" Alfred floundered, taken aback. "We decided, Arthur and I, not to-"

"For god's sake!" Sherman seethed, not listening. "No lifebelts, either!"

"We gave them to people who needed them," Arthur said coolly, coming to Alfred's side. "Captain Sherman, Alfred and I are not getting into a lifeboat. We haven't much need for those, either."

"Shut your gob, Kirkland! I can't _believe_ this!" Sherman beckoned furiously. "Both of you, come at _once_. Lightoller is loading one of the collapsibles down here. You will both get into it and I won't hear another word about it!"

"We most certainly will _not_ be getting into it," Arthur said stoutly, folding his arms. "Surely you know that there aren't enough boats for everyone on board."

Sherman whirled angrily on him, taking him by his emerald cravat.

"Don't think I don't know what you're doing, you vicious little fucker," he hissed.

"Take your hands off me," Arthur growled back at him.

Sherman did so, though for the barest of moments; he put his hand behind Arthur's shoulder and shoved him forwards.

"Get moving," he spat. "I've had about enough of you, Commodore." He pushed at Alfred, too. "Mr Jones, _move_ , please."

Alfred did move, taking Arthur's arm and pulling him with him; but he looked back at Sherman in bewilderment.

"Captain Sherman," he said desperately, "Arthur is right - there aren't enough boats for everyone on board and we-"

"Be _quiet_ , Mr Jones."

"But sir-"

"Listen." Sherman looked at him exhaustedly. "Your words are true and your actions are noble - and, really, very much the right thing to do, but you must understand that you and Commodore Kirkland are the _national representatives_ of the United States and Great Britain. We simply _cannot_ have it that you were not put into a lifeboat, regardless of whether or not you might need it." He pushed aside a group of Polish-speaking men, leading Alfred and Arthur through. "Or perhaps you would like to explain to your president that you were left to fend for yourself in icy waters when there were lifeboats?"

"I-"

"Mr Lightoller!" Sherman ignored him, calling to the Second Officer, Charles Lightoller, in charge of one of the collapsible lifeboats. "Kirkland and Jones are still on board. See that they're put into this boat, please!"

Lightoller nodded and hastily beckoned them forward. Sherman gave Alfred another shove and he stumbled forward towards the edge of the deck; it seemed that they didn't have much of a choice after all-

"I'm not fucking going," Arthur said firmly, fiercely; and Alfred suddenly lost his grip on him, realising that he had pulled away.

"Arthur!" He turned wildly, just in time to see Arthur plunge back into the crowd and vanish into the surging throng of panicked passengers.

" _Jesus Christ_!" Sherman exploded, elbowing Alfred aside. "I'll wring his bleeding _neck_!"

"I'll get him," Alfred said breathlessly, stopping him. "Don't worry, I'll… I'll fetch him back-"

"Yes, yes!" Sherman waved frustratedly at him. "Hurry and get him. I'll have Lightoller hold the boat but you _must_ hurry, she's going down faster and faster."

Alfred nodded and started away; but Sherman seized his elbow and tugged at him.

"And don't let him… _talk_ you into anything, do you hear me?" he said angrily. "He's doing this out of spite, Jones. He hates White Star Line, he hates Cunard, he seems to think the seas belong to him and to his navy and _anything_ to tarnish the liner business, trust me, he won't hesitate. This isn't just about nobility, you mark my words. Hundreds of good men are going to die tonight, officers and engineers and seamen, we're all ready and waiting to see her through to the end. For _their_ sakes, I want him on that lifeboat. I won't have him destroy their reputations."

Alfred pulled out of his grasp.

"Y-yes, I understand," he said, turning away. "I'll bring him back."

He pushed through the crowd, emerging on the other side of it and looking wildly around. There was no sign of Arthur whatsoever but the door to the First Class entrance, a little way down the boat deck, was wide open. It was the likeliest place for Arthur to have gone, heading back into the ship. Alfred broke into a sprint, fighting his way through people running the other way towards the stern as _Titanic_ 's whole front section began to submerge completely. He scrambled through the First Class entrance and along the hallway until he came to the first level of the grand staircase, putting his hands to the railing and leaning over. In the time they had been on _Titanic_ 's deck - no more than about twenty minutes, surely - the staircase had begun to flood, the main hallway three flights below filling with seawater. He swallowed and started down the stairs, thinking that perhaps Arthur had gone back to his suite. He was on the second level when Arthur suddenly emerged beneath him, heading straight down the steps towards the flooded hall as though he couldn't see the water.

"Arthur!" Alfred leaned over and called to him. "Where the hell are you going?"

Arthur stopped and looked up at him. There was a crazy, defiant expression in his jade eyes.

"I believe I was quite clear," he said icily, "when I said I wasn't getting in a lifeboat."

"But… but where are you _going_?" Alfred started along the staircase again. "Just… just _wait there_ , god…!"

"I'm going to get my red book," Arthur said calmly, starting to move again. He stepped into the water and kept going downwards, the flood rising higher with every step he took. "The one with my calculations. It was silly of me to forget it."

"Arthur, you _can't_ go back to the suite! The ship is flooding!"

"Well, that's where I'm going."

"No… Jesus, Arthur, _wait there_ , will you?"

Arthur didn't stop, however, waist-deep in the water; and, knowing he wouldn't be able to catch up to him like this, Alfred hoisted himself over the banister and jumped into the flooded hall, landing with an almighty splash right in front of him. Arthur recoiled and stopped, looking guardedly at Alfred as he straightened up.

"Fuck, it's _freezing_!" Alfred gasped, grabbing hold of the bronze cherub statue. He shuddered, swallowing.

"It's the Atlantic Ocean," Arthur said witheringly, still regarding Alfred with some wariness. "Let me guess - Sherman sent you to drag me back."

"Arthur, don't be so difficult, for god's sake," Alfred begged. "This isn't the time for you to throw a strop about opulent floating hotels-"

"It's not going to be floating for much longer, is it?" Arthur said lightly, wading past him. "Now look, either come with me or go back up on deck. I'm not-"

" _Arthur_!" Alfred grabbed his wrist and stopped him. " _Enough_ of this! How can you be so goddamn selfish?"

"I don't think it's at all selfish to give up my seat in a lifeboat for someone who needs it," Arthur replied firmly, trying to tug his arm free. "And neither do you. Now let go."

"No - you're coming back up with me right now." Alfred started to haul at him, pulling him back towards the stairs.

"I most certainly am not."

"Arthur-"

Arthur whirled on him and punched him straight in the jaw. Alfred reeled, grabbing the cherub again to hold his balance as he spat out some blood, which bloomed on the rising water. He certainly let go of Arthur, who barely glanced at him before starting away again through the frigid water.

"Leave me alone," he said coldly.

Alfred coughed and shook his head, barely recovering before lunging after Arthur again; he caught him around the waist and pulled him backwards, dragging him to the steps and throwing him against the banister.

"Like _hell_ ," he spat, wiping at his bloodied lip, "I'm going to leave you down here. Now stop being an awkward bastard and get your ass upstairs and into that lifeboat!"

Arthur, who had clearly been stunned by this sudden assault on his person, straightened up again, looking at Alfred haughtily.

"You've certainly changed your tune," he said frostily. "I thought we were agreed about the lifeboats."

Alfred kneaded at his forehead.

"Arthur, now that Sherman has said it, it actually makes a lot of sense," he groaned. "You _are_ doing this out of spite, aren't you? It would ruin White Star Line if it looked as though they made no attempt to ensure you and I were put to safety."

"Perhaps a little bit," Arthur admitted; his voice was as hard as steel. "But they have to learn their lesson either way. Twenty lifeboats isn't good enough, Alfred - not when _Titanic_ can carry more than enough for her full capacity. I won't see two people drown for want of seats that we can give."

Alfred took his shoulder, closing his eyes tightly as _Titanic_ groaned overhead, her vast structure beginning to buckle.

"Arthur," he begged. " _Please_. Please come back up."

" _No_!" Arthur shoved him off; he looked furious, his skin very white. "How _dare_ you and Stewart and Sherman and everyone else treat me like this! It's women and children first, men if there's any room - and _gentlemen_ , Alfred, we stay behind. Seamen, too - and I am one of those, too, don't forget - _we stay behind_. Why should Guggenheim get to put on his dinner dress and go down with the ship whilst _I_ am bundled like a helpless woman into a lifeboat? I won't go, I tell you! I simply _won't_!"

"But you're not a helpless woman," Alfred said desperately, reaching for him again. The water lapped higher around their knees. "And in this situation… you're not a gentleman and you're not a seaman, either. It doesn't matter, even, that you hold the rank of Commodore. Arty, Sherman… Sherman is right. We're the national representatives of our countries. It'll blacken the names of everyone willing and ready to go down with _Titanic_ if we aren't saved - even if… even if we don't need to be. Even if we don't _want_ to be." He took Arthur's hand, pressing it tightly between his own. "…We'll be doing more good that way than giving up our seats. Please, Arthur, I don't want all these good men to die at all but… as you said, if there's nothing we can do, let it not be in vain, at least. Please come back up with me. _Please_ , Arthur."

Arthur looked at him. His expression was conflicted: half-angry and half-remorseful. He exhaled and looked away for a moment, his green eyes closing and his eyelashes stark against his bloodless cheeks. _Titanic_ wailed and the water swelled higher still, chasing them up the steps.

"Alright," Arthur said in a very low voice. "Alright, I'll come up and get in the lifeboat." He opened his eyes again, glancing at Alfred with a baleful glint in them. "…But I can't promise I won't punch you again."

Alfred simply smiled at him in relief.

"I'd prefer a punch to that slap you gave me the other day," he said, tugging at Arthur's hand and leading him hurriedly up the staircase. "That was downright insulting."

"I know. I think I insulted myself, too, by doing it. I promise to only punch you in the face from now on, Alfred."

"Thanks, sweetheart." Alfred tightened his grip on Arthur's hand. "Come on, let's get the hell out of here."

They raced back up the staircase ahead of the rising sea pouring into _Titanic_ 's heart, along the corridor and emerged onto the ramping madness of the tilting boat deck. A look towards the direction of the bow showed that the water was beginning to plunge up over the deck at that end; another flare went off, lighting _Titanic_ 's funnels and, in the glare, it was clear that the first of them, at least, was beginning to tilt and strain, tipping in the direction of the bow.

"Come on," Alfred said again. "This is probably the last chance we've got."

Arthur said nothing, though he held his hand and obediently followed as Alfred weaved him through the splintering crowds towards the davit holding the collapsible. Sherman was at the edge helping people in and his face lit with relief as he saw Alfred with Arthur safely in tow.

"Thank Christ," he breathed. "Right, get in, both of you. This one's almost full - it'll only take a few more people." He signalled to Lightoller, who nodded and stepped off the davit to ready himself for the order to lower the boat.

Alfred didn't dare let go of Arthur, not entirely trusting him not to bolt again; instead he pushed him forwards, urging him to get in first.

"Arty, go on," he said, pushing at him. "Just step down, I'll get in right behind you."

Arthur said nothing but it was clear that he was resisting, digging in his heels when Alfred tried to push him forward to the deck's edge.

" _Arthur_!" Alfred lost his patience and bodily lifted him before he could slither away again, dumping him the few feet into the boat.

" _Alfred_!" Arthur began crossly, righting himself in the bottom of the lifeboat. "What exactly-"

"Shut up," Alfred snapped, stepping in next to him. "You were going to run again, weren't you?"

Arthur simply looked away. Alfred took hold of him and made him sit down, keeping a tight grip on him; he didn't want him jumping back out again, something he wouldn't put past him. A few more men were admitted into the boat and then Lightoller gave the order to lower away. The lifeboat shuddered on its davits and began to make its slow descent towards the water and Alfred looked up as _Titanic_ rose high above them. His breath clouded on the air as he watched her, awed and terrified and heartbroken.

Arthur was not looking up. He was looking down at his pocket watch. Alfred, too, stole a glance.

It was ten minutes to two.

* * *

Alfred had never seen anything so beautiful in all of his life. _Titanic_ , stricken though she was, her bow completely submerged and her stern rising steadily ever higher out of the sea, glittered on the still water, long and proud like a golden dragonfly. He had never seen her from afar and never seen her at night and he recalled, at that moment, the description of her sister, _Olympic_ , whom the newspapers had likened to a string of pearls. _Titanic_ was as magnificent and more, lighting up the sea as it slowly claimed her for its own.

"It won't be long now," Arthur whispered, nudging close.

They were holding hands and Alfred's twitched in Arthur's.

"Isn't she beautiful?" he said in a low voice. "Art? Isn't she?"

"Alfred." Arthur said it more firmly. "It's almost over. Ten minutes or so, I shouldn't wonder. She might look magnificent now, even with her arse in the air, but it's going to be ugly when she goes under. It always is."

Alfred nodded. His heart was thundering in his chest, so loud that he fancied he could hear it over the sweet, mournful sound of the band drifting out over the still air towards them. They were off _Titanic_ , safe in a lifeboat, and he was more afraid than ever.

At once, as though Arthur's words had prompted her, _Titanic_ gave up her grace and began to crumble. Her first funnel tore and toppled, smashing into the sea and disappearing. She tilted forwards ever faster, her vast propellers clear out of the water now, and the angle wrenched again on her second funnel; this, too plunged over her submerged bow and disappeared. She lurched and groaned, her stern rising higher and higher, and then, suddenly, her lights at last flickered and went out. At once everything around her was plunged into darkness and her vastness became a hulking shape against the sky; Alfred (perhaps naïvely, though Arthur had warned him) hadn't expected her appearance to change so suddenly, so dramatically, from a thing of beauty to a monstrous creature rising out of the depths like a bloodied whale and he gasped, hunching against Arthur.

Arthur stroked his hand but did not make a sound.

_Titanic_ gave a roar, truly the most dreadful sound Alfred had ever heard, a baying symphony of tearing metal and splintering wood, of man-made folly and blind foolishness, and something about her hideous form twisted and seemed to grow very strange. It was nightmarish, utterly horrifying, and Alfred looked away, putting his hands over his ears. The people still clinging to her and those in the water around her were screaming - and she herself was screaming, too, bellowing as she tore in half - and he couldn't watch, he couldn't listen.

There was a sudden stillness then, though; and Alfred, stupidly, ventured to look as her stern - severed from the rest of her, funneless and crumpled - reared violently back and crashed into the water, sending up a wave which carried so far as to rock their little lifeboat (one of the very last to get away from her).

He couldn't look away now; he even pushed up his glasses as he watched, spellbound, utterly repulsed and terrified. _Titanic_ 's back end reared up once more, rising to sit upright like an old sea monster from an antique map, huge and shapeless, a blot against the horizon which took on the very essence of nightmares; she turned, rocking, in the utmost throes of death, and Alfred knew he would never forget seeing this. It was so much uglier than Arthur could ever have described; so, _so_ much worse than he could ever have imagined. He put his hand to his mouth as, after patiently waiting for her audience to see her true colours, _Titanic_ at last began to slide out of sight. He didn't know whether it was to stop himself from throwing up or simply to cram back a sob or a scream or what but he held it there, clamped and gripping at his face, his other hand tightly entangled with Arthur's.

She disappeared completely beneath the calm waters at twenty minutes past two. Arthur noted the time and snapped his pocket watch shut, giving a shuddering sigh which might have been relieved, which have been fear or horror or…

"She's gone," he said, leaning his head against Alfred's trembling shoulder. "Oh god, Alfred. She's gone."

Alfred held him and, looking out at the waters which had taken her, seeing them empty but for the men and women and children she had left behind, began to cry.

* * *

This isn't quite the end of the story - there will be an epilogue chapter tomorrow - but it's the end for the _Titanic_ , which, of course, sank one hundred years ago on this date, 15th April 1912.

So Alfred and Arthur ended up in a lifeboat after all. I did actually choose to do this for a few reasons: I didn't want to copy James Cameron's _Titanic_ , which I think really has the definitive version of the main characters staying on the ship right until the end; and also I wanted them to see the sinking from a distance rather than actually be on _Titanic_ when she goes down. I felt like them actually watching her sink (which, from eyewitness accounts, was really an awful thing to watch) had more impact symbolically, etc.

**Benjamin Guggenheim** and his valet, Victor Giglio, did indeed dress in their evening wear and simply wait for the ship to sink, determined to go down as gentlemen (he seems like Arthur's kind of guy!). In Cameron's _Titanic_ , Guggenheim is shown to be in the grand staircase when it floods, although eyewitness accounts of the sinking say that Guggenheim and his valet were actually seen on deck near the band.

The Welsh officer mentioned in passing here, loading a lifeboat, is Fifth Officer **Harold Lowe** , who survived the sinking and was in command of the only lifeboat to go back to the scene of the sinking to search for survivors. In Cameron's _Titanic_ , he was portrayed by Ioan Gruffudd and was shown to rescue Rose from the door that saved her life.

There is a real theory put forward by some Titanoraks that even if _Titanic_ had had enough lifeboats for everyone aboard, two hours and forty minutes (the time it took for the ship to sink) was not long enough for every lifeboat to be filled and launched. As it was, one of the wooden lifeboats was capsized when _Titanic_ 's deck flooded and two of the collapsibles simply floated off rather than being lowered, so this theory does hold some merit. It's still no excuse for not having enough lifeboats, of course!

One more to go~


	8. Epilogue: Her Saviour and Her Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> None of that side-saddle stuff!

It's the final "chapter" of this story! Yaaaay! I must say, I was originally quite far ahead with writing this, starting it about two weeks in advance, but stuff happened (…like me seeing _Titanic_ in the cinema twice - that's nine hours of my life gone right there) and I ended up falling behind and really had to break my back to get this done. Not that I'm demanding sympathy or praise, hahaha, it's more that I'm quite relieved for this to be over at long last!

For anyone curious as to why, last chapter, Alfred (the self-proclaimed hero) wasn't more heroic, saving people left, right and centre… Well, I don't like to interfere too much with history that way. It's all very well to write Our Hero diving in to rescue people from the water, commandeering lifeboats and making sure they're properly filled and rowing back after the foundering to pull fifty people out of the water… but that didn't happen. I mean, sure, I know Jack and Rose didn't exist either but I feel like the Jack-and-Rose story is insular in its own way, not really interfering all that much with the actual events, and I wanted to do the same. 705 people on _Titanic_ were saved due to the actions of her crew, not a fictional character, and really I'd rather Alfred was a little OOC than take the credit from real people, many of whom bravely died at their posts during the tragedy.

…Uh, not that anyone complained about that, per se! Buuuut I decided to justify myself in case anyone was wondering why _Hetalia_ 's most heroic character didn't exactly prove himself in a lot of ways. I hope this is an acceptable reason~

Her Saviour and Her Sister

The stretch of time between the _Titanic_ 's foundering and the break of dawn which brought their rescuer, the _RMS Carpathia_ , steaming over the brightening horizon towards the cluster of lifeboats had been the most awful experience of Alfred's life. When her grotesque black bulk had at last slithered out of sight, all that had been left of the almighty _Titanic_ was a thrashing mass of swimmers helpless in the icy waters. Some had found things to hang on to but most had simply floundered blindly, sobbing and screaming for help - and knowing, really, that they couldn't go back, not in their tiny overcrowded lifeboat, Alfred had sat in the midst of the other silent survivors with his head in his hands. Arthur had had his palms pressed tightly over his ears but, glancing at him, Alfred had known that for once it was not because Arthur had come to resent chaotic noise; it was because he couldn't bear to listen to his people dying. The majority of _RMS Titanic_ 's crew, at least, had been British.

"We… we have to go back," Alfred had said hoarsely at some point; he himself had found it unbelievable, stupid with a self-indulgent echo of heroism, but it came out because he could contain the guilt no longer. "We can't… can't just sit here and-"

"This boat is too crowded," the seaman at the rudder had interrupted, not looking at him. "The earlier ones… they left half-empty. Some of them might go back. They _should_."

Alfred had said nothing at all after that, falling still. Within an hour the cries had faded to the odd forlorn wail and then Arthur took his hands from his ears and looked up at the sound of the lilting Welsh accent calling across the still waters for survivors. Fifth Officer Lowe's boat had drifted into the bed of floating corpses and out of sight, the blackness closing in around it. His was the only one that went back.

Alfred had vomited twice over the side of their boat, Arthur's hand at his back, by the time they pulled alongside _Carpathia_. With his eyes closed, all he could see was _Titanic_ 's corpse hiking bleakly over the skyline before plunging to her grave; all he heard were her roars and the screams of those left in the water after her violent departure from the surface world.

It would have been too easy, after all, to stand up and shove the seaman aside, to take the oar, throw the other to Arthur or someone else able to row and direct them back to the pulsing nest of dying people in the freezing waters… But Alfred, for all his brash and blunt behaviour, was not entirely stupid. He had been in wars - he had seen the desperate things that dying humans were capable of if they thought it would save them. Those people would not have formed an orderly queue and waited their turn to be pulled into the lifeboat; no, they would have surged and grabbed and, without a doubt, capsized the tiny boat, pulling down its folded canvas sides and dragging the forty-odd preserved people into the icy ocean with them. Humans were not the straightest of thinkers when they were panicked and condemned to die.

Not that that - as grimly sensible as it had been - had made him feel any better. Safe on _Carpathia_ , bundled with blankets and plied with short glasses of brandy, Arthur had rested his head against Alfred's shaking shoulder.

"Surviving is harder than it looks, you know," he had whispered. "Because you'll feel guilty for not saving those who perished for the rest of your life. It's a pity, isn't it, that you and I have absolutely no choice either way."

* * *

"Here." Alfred sat down next to Arthur on the floor of the _Carpathia_ 's open deck, handing him a cup of hot, watery soup. "…I'm afraid I don't know what the exact measurements are."

Arthur's mouth twitched into a shadow of a smile.

"I don't think I'm in much of a position to make a fuss," he said quietly. "At least not without deserving a smack around the head." He held out the blanket draped around his shoulders for Alfred to get back under with him, wrapping his chilled hands around the cup. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Alfred curled up next him, sipping at his own. It was a bit tasteless but so welcome that he had to stop himself from gulping it all down in one go.

"…Are you alright now, Alfred?" Arthur asked gently. "It was your first and… I confess it doesn't get much easier, really, but it's such a dreadful thing the first time you see a ship go under and… well, even _I_ have never seen anything quite as monstrous as we saw last night-"

"I'll be fine." Alfred said it quickly, a little defensively, looking up at the sky. It was a bright, clear morning and the _Carpathia_ , which had turned her Europe-bound course to race to _Titanic_ 's aid, was heading back to New York. "I just… I don't know. I need a while to recover, I think, but I'll be alright."

"You were very brave last night, Alfred."

Alfred shrank a bit.

"No, I wasn't," he muttered. "I didn't… I didn't _save_ anyone, I didn't-"

"You stopped me from doing something very silly and cruel. I'm glad you did." Arthur paused. "I wouldn't have died, of course, but after seeing her lights stay on until right before she went under, after… after hearing my men, her devoted officers, dying in the water because they stayed on her until the last… I'm glad you stopped me. I almost had them branded failures and they weren't. They were good, brave sailors, every last member of the crew, and they deserve to be remembered as such."

Alfred swallowed.

"Still, I-"

"It doesn't seem like much now," Arthur went on, "after sitting in a lifeboat close enough to hear those people dying and doing nothing to help them. I know it doesn't - but the truth is that I've been in very bad form about this whole thing and honestly my behaviour has been quite unspeakable. You really… really _helped_ me last night, Alfred. God only knows what selfish stunt I would have pulled if you hadn't been there to talk some sense into me. I really can be quite a prick sometimes, you know."

Alfred grinned weakly.

"Yeah, I do know," he said. "My lip still stings from where you punched me. Heads up, next time you hit me during one of your hissy fits, I'm going to knock you into the middle of next _year_."

"Ah, 1913," Arthur sighed. "I do so wonder what it holds. That war, perhaps."

"Maybe."

Arthur gave a sigh, loosening his twisted cravat. His white-and-gold waistcoat was completely open, glittering in the morning sun.

"I had a look for my books," he said idly. "Where all the lifebelts and everything else from the boats was piled up on the deck."

"Oh?"

"Yes." Arthur smiled. "…They weren't there."

Alfred's eyebrows arched.

"And you're okay with that? I thought you wanted them to be saved-"

"I did - they were beautiful books and they meant an awful lot to me. But looking around this deck, seeing all the new widows, the children without fathers, the people who lost friends and family and everything that they owned… I'm actually quite glad I didn't get my four measly books back. How would that be fair, Alfred?" He sighed, still smiling. "That poor stewardess, I bet she got her head bitten off by one of the officers for trying to put books into a boat when there weren't enough seats for everyone. I quite understand, really. I was just being… well, difficult and selfish and-"

"I haven't seen Sherman," Alfred cut in softly. "Or Stewart or Jameson or the driver who came on with us."

"I haven't seen Mr Jacobs," Arthur replied, "or the majority of the serving staff that were in my suite." He hesitated. "…It's dreadful, isn't it?"

Alfred looked down at his soup.

"Ismay is on here, though," he murmured. "I saw him."

"Yes, I had heard. That was a mistake, I assure you. He'll never hear the end of it. Smith went down, so did Thomas Andrews, so did Murdoch and Wilde and Lightoller, who was bloody lucky to be pulled out when he was… For Christ's sake, the bleeding _band_ went down with the ship and they weren't even White Star Line employees. Of course it's the nature of humans to attempt to preserve themselves when faced with death but… well, Ismay really should have known better."

"Mmm." Putting down his cup, Alfred stretched out his legs, splaying them open over the boards and feeling the muscles pull, still tense from the hours sitting motionless in the lifeboat as they awaited the _Carpathia_. "…Arty, you know… the other day when… when you said that you wished _Titanic_ would… sink…?"

Arthur didn't answer for a long moment. When Alfred (determined to make him talk) added nothing more, Arthur shifted, playing distractedly with the antique pin stuck savagely through his cravat.

"…And that she would take this wretched year with her," he sighed at last. "…Yes."

"Did you… mean it?" Alfred swallowed. "Not that you had anything to do with it by jinxing her or… or predicted it or anything, I only… well, I'm just curious."

Arthur was very quiet again.

"In retrospect," he said at last, "of course I didn't. It was a wicked thing to say - I even knew that then. But at the time I was so bitter, so resentful…" He closed his eyes. "…My god, you know, I really think I _did_."

* * *

Their names were put onto the list of survivors - more so that no-one would worry and no-one would be blamed - but, when they at last reached New York, Alfred took Arthur's hand and pulled him into the crowd and they vanished for two whole years.

* * *

30th June, 1914

It was blisteringly hot in Nebraska - their ninth home in twenty-six months - and Alfred poured them each a glass of water from the stiff tap at the kitchen sink, downing half of his own as he came to the kitchen table. He put Arthur's down next to him.

"Thank you," Arthur murmured, not looking up from the newspaper spread across the table. He reached for it and sipped gratefully, pushing his reading glasses up his nose.

"Is it bad?" Alfred asked, a hand on his hip. He nodded towards the newspaper.

"You might say that," Arthur replied. He leaned back in his chair, taking a more committed mouthful of water. "The Austro-Hungarian archduke has been assassinated."

"Ooh." Alfred winced. "Elizaveta and Roderich aren't going to be happy about that, huh?"

"No, they're not." Arthur frowned, slipping off his glasses. "…I think this is it, old boy. The war, I mean. The power keg's been waiting to go off for years and I think this might just be the trigger."

Alfred looked candidly at him.

"So what now?" he asked.

"Well, it's a European thing," Arthur sighed. "I wouldn't worry yourself too much. I doubt your government will want to get involved."

"…And you?"

Arthur sighed and got up.

"I suppose I ought to write to the British Embassy in Washington D.C. and let them know where I am." He paused, glancing at Alfred. "…I'll have to go back."

Alfred nodded.

"I know," he said quietly.

He put down his glass and crossed to Arthur, putting his arms around him. Arthur rested his head on his shoulder and exhaled deeply.

"…Not that it hasn't been a delightful two years," he went on, his voice glittering with amusement, "living all over the country with you, half-fugitives and half-married-couple."

Alfred laughed, cuddling him. Arthur was slender again, his waist a trim, healthy thirty-two inches, but it had been a difficult thirteen months battling with him, breaking all the tiny habits and securities and obsessions which had been on the verge of ruining him - a real unpleasant, exhausting slog, especially when Alfred suffered often from such nightmares of the _Titanic_ 's sinking that he woke in a blind panic and couldn't get back to sleep for the rest of the night. Even two years later, she and her demise haunted him still; and Arthur was the saviour then, holding him tightly as he calmed and remembered that they were in Maine or Delaware or Illinois, running further from the coast all the time.

Arthur sighed in his arms and pulled away again.

"I'd… better go and write," he said. "They'll need to make arrangements for my return to Britain so the sooner they know…"

"I could take you," Alfred said wistfully. "In my plane."

Arthur paused with his hand on the doorframe. He smirked at Alfred.

"Granted, the last ship I ever set foot on was the disastrous _Titanic_ ," he said wryly, "but I'll still take my chances with the sea, darling."

* * *

July 18th, 1914 

Alfred recognised this scene - although it was in reverse, it seemed. Hopping out of the car at New York Harbor, he looked up at the huge liner with her long black-and-white body and her four orange funnels stretching towards the clouds. It made his heart tighten a little to see her, as though risen from the depths of her watery gravesite, and he dropped his gaze to the cobbles.

Arthur, dressed impeccably in a neat charcoal suit with a teal necktie, came around the side of the car to join him; and they were met by a handful of British Army and Royal Navy officers, who shook hands rather forcibly with Arthur and seemed determined to whisk him away as soon as possible.

"We brought your uniform, Major-General," an army officer pressed, gesturing to himself in his dark green attire, his leather Sam Browne belt gleaming over his chest. "The entire army has adopted the 1902 changes. We'll all be wearing the khaki now, sir - the red will be used only for dress."

"Yes, well, I suppose they always _were_ a little impractical," Arthur said lightly. "Far too garish. I do hope Francis has learnt his lesson." He waved his hand impatiently at the officers. "Anyway, I'll be along shortly."

They scattered reluctantly, as though worried he might vanish again. Arthur rolled his eyes, turning to Alfred with a sharp motion towards the ship that had been sent to fetch him home. "…They _would_ send the bloody _Olympic_ , wouldn't they?"

"I can't even look at her," Alfred said weakly. "She looks… so much like _Titanic_ …"

"To be fair, that's not _Olympic_ 's fault," Arthur reasoned. "She was here first." He sighed, reaching out and taking Alfred's hands. "Anyway, Alfred, I… I don't know how long it'll be until I see you again but I just… want you to know that I'm grateful for everything you've done for me since 1912, since _Titanic_ … You've been so good with me, so patient, and to be honest… I don't think I'd be able to face this war, you know, if it wasn't for you."

Alfred smiled faintly.

"You're strong, Arthur."

"No," Arthur said. "I was once - and I am now, I think. But I wasn't in 1912. …I really am so glad, at least, that she had the decency to take it with her after all. The world has changed since she sank, don't you think?"

Alfred gripped his hands.

"For the better, I hope," he said.

Arthur smirked.

" _Any_ change is good enough for me," he replied.

He took Alfred by his lapel and pulled him into a kiss, which they shared for a long moment because this was the first goodbye they'd had to say since coming together at Southampton on Wednesday 10th April, 1912. They had been lucky like that.

"I'll see you soon," Alfred promised breathlessly, kissing Arthur on the forehead. "I'll come as soon as I can, I swear. I'll come and… and help you fight and-"

"Goodness me," Arthur interrupted amusedly, running his thumb over Alfred's cheek. "You and I, allies in a war, fighting side-by-side. This _will_ be a first, won't it?"

"And not the last." Alfred kissed him again. "Okay?"

Arthur grinned.

"Well, when you promise me such things, Alfred," he teased, "then what choice do I have but to say a warm _hello!_ to 1914 and a brand new world?" He put his arms around Alfred's neck, holding him close. "I do hope _Titanic_ 's sister will get me there quickly."

"And why is that?" Alfred asked, nuzzling him.

"Because," Arthur whispered in his ear, "I think this century is going to turn out to be rather interesting after all."

* * *

…Unfortunately for you, Arthur, it all goes horribly wrong very quickly. Welcome to the bloodiest century (so far) in recorded history. The tragic sinking of the _Titanic_ was just the beginning. T.T

You know, it occurred to me while writing this that _Titanic_ 's Jack Dawson might have been lucky to die when he did - because chances are he'd have been packed off to fight in the trenches five years later. Being with the posh girl you fell in love with in only four days as you slowly freeze to death is better than blown to bits by a shell in a filthy trench in France? …Maybe? O.o (I jest, I love _Titanic_ \- as quickly as Jack and Rose fall in love, it's a _lot_ more credible than the slapdash, rushed romances littering the mediocre Julian Fellowes' mini-series which concluded on Sunday. Granted, the actual break-up/foundering of the ship was really well done in the series but the rest of it was quite disappointing…)

Though there was a whole inquiry afterwards regarding the _SS Californian_ (which according to varying sources was within sight of _Titanic_ while she was sinking and didn't come to help/ _wasn't_ within sight but was close enough that she could have helped had she had her radio on/actually wasn't anywhere near as close as people say she was, etc), _RMS Carpathia_ , a Cunard liner under the command of Captain Arthur Rostron, was the only ship to properly respond to _Titanic_ 's distress signal. _Carpathia_ , 58 miles away,was rather old and quite small, built in 1903, and could only go seventeen knots at her very highest speed, but Rostron nonetheless turned her course immediately and headed towards _Titanic_ 's coordinates. Despite his best efforts, however, she didn't make it in time and, when she arrived at 4:00am, all that was left were _Titanic_ 's lifeboats, which she picked up. Rostron and his crew were rightfully recognised for their heroic actions in rescuing _Titanic_ 's survivors. A sad thing is that _Titanic_ 's distress signal was actually picked up by her sister _Olympic_ , which was over a day's steaming away and could do nothing to help. _Olympic_ , on her way back from New York, was rumoured to be due to pass by _Titanic_ in a few days' time - the sisters never did meet at sea, of course.

Anyway, that's enough of my rambling - you've all been kind enough to put up with a whole week of it, so I shall leave you in peace. As I've been interested in _Titanic_ and her sisters ever since I saw where they were built in Belfast when I was fourteen (…which was a long time ago now… T.T), I'm so glad I wrote this (even if it ate my life this past week gaahhhh) and I'd like to thank you all for following this through with me. I was delighted every day by your lovely comments and the company in commemorating _Titanic_ 's centenary in my own special little way (read: country pr0n) was deeply appreciated.

To the _RMS Titanic_ and all her lost souls: Her memory, at least, is unsinkable.


End file.
